.fiction, '.fact,  ono  fancy  Scries 

EDITED  BY  ARTHUR  STEDMAN 


SELECTED  POEMS 


JFiction,  .fact,  anfc  Jancg  Strus. 


MERRY  TALES. 

BY  MARK  TWAIN. 


THE  GERMAN  EMPEROR  AND  HIS  EASTERN 
NEIGHBORS. 

BY   POULTNEY  BlGELOW. 


SELECTED  POEMS. 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN. 


DON    FINIMONDONE  :    CALABRIAN 
SKETCHES. 

BY  ELISABETH  CAVAZZA. 

Other  Volumes  to  be  Announced. 


Bound  in  Illuminated  Cloth,  each,  75  Cents. 

#*#  For  Sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid,  on  re- 
ceipt of  price,  by  the  Publishers, 

OHAS,  L,  WEBSTER  &  00,,  NEW  YORK, 


I    -i 


POEMS 


MAN 


10  Dork 


SELECTED  POEMS 


BY 

WALT  WHITMAN 


JJork 

CHARLES  L.  WEBSTER  &  CO. 
1892 


Copyright,  1855,  1856,  1860,  1867,  1871,  1876,  1881,  1882, 
1888,  1891,  and  1892, 

WALT    WH  ITMAN. 

(All  rig/its  reserved.) 


PRESS  OF 

JENKINS  &  McCowAN, 

NEW  YORK. 


EDITOR'S  NOTE 


THIS  edition  of  Mr.  Whitman's  poems  is,  on  his  part, 
a  concession  to  friendship.  He  has  not  abandoned  his 
position,  but  has  yielded  to  urgent  request.  Several 
eclectic  editions  of  "Leaves  of  Grass"  have  been  is- 
sued in  England  and  Scotland,  most  of  them  with  his 
half-willing  consent.  Here,  where  he  can  assert  his 
rights,  he  never  has  permitted  one  such  to  appear. 

With  regard  to  the  editor,  the  volume  is  partially  a 
concession  to  the  spirit  which  banished  "Leaves  of 
Grass  "  from  Massachusetts.  It  cannot,  however,  be 
styled  a  concession  to  the  New  England  critics  who 
begrudge  any  good  thing  which  comes  out  of  Manhat- 
tan. It  is  intended  rather  as  a  justification  of  New 
England's  leaders  of  thought,  who  have  consistently 
appreciated  Mr.  Whitman's  genius  from  the  first. 

My  intention  has  been  to  offer,  in  a  conventional 
form,  those  of  his  poems  which  are  held  to  be  most 
nearly  in  harmony  with  the  poetic  era  (though  really 
they  have  a  character  quite  apart  from  it),  and  to  add 
selections  from  his  more  distinctive  chantings.  With 
the  choice  and  arrangement  of  the  poems  Mr.  Whit- 
man has  had  nothing  to  do,  save  in  the  most  general 
way  of  approval. 


viii  EDITOR'S  NOTE 

I  sincerely  believe  this  little  collection  will  be  a  reve- 
lation even  to  those  who  know  their  Whitman.  It 
seems  to  me  that  a  defective  lyrical  sense  can  be  the 
only  excuse  for  those  who  do  not  find  him  wonderfully 
rhythmic.  Some  may  declare  that  I  have  tried  to 
chisel  a  statuette  out  of  a  particularly  rugged  boulder, 
but  if  they  will  admit  that  the  carving  has  been  neatly 
done,  they  are  welcome  to  call  the  book  a  paradox. 


CONTENTS 


PACE 

NATURE.  MAN,  AND  SELF. 

To  the  Man-of-War  Bird 13 

A  Paumanok  Picture         14 

Patroling  Barnegat 15 

With  Husky-Haughty  Lips,  O  Sea! 16 

Old  Salt  Kossabone 17 

To  the  Sun-set  Breeze 18 

From  Far  Dakota's  Cartons        19 

Death  of  General  Grant         21 

The  Dead  Tenor 22 

Prayer  of  Columbus 23 

Old  Ireland 26 

O  Star  of  France 27 

The  Justified  Mother  of  Men 29 

Spirit  that  Form'd  this  Scene 30 

When  I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer       ...  31 

Out  from  Behind  this  Mask 32 

Recorders  Ages  Hence 34 

By  Broad  Potomac's  Shore        35 

INTERLUDES. 

The  Mystic  Trumpeter 39 

From  "  Out  of  the  Cradle  " 43 

Song  of  the  Universal 48 

Pioneers!  O  Pioneers! 51 

DRUM-TAPS. 

First  O  Songs  for  a  Prelude 59 

Beat!  Beat!  Drums!          62 

Cavalry  Crossing  a  Ford 64 

By  the  Bivouac's  Fitful  Flame 65 

Come  up  from  the  Fields  Father         66 

The  Wound-Dresser 68 

Ethiopia  Saluting  the  Colors 72 

To  a  Certain  Civilian         73 

Spirit  whose  Work  is  Done        74 


X  CONTENTS 

MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN. 

When  Lilacs  Last 79 

O  Captain!  My  Captain!        90 

Hush'd  be  the  Camps  To-day         91 

OLD  AGE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALITY. 

Of  that  Blithe  Throat  of  Thine 95 

Thanks  in  Old  Age 96 

On,  On  the  Same,  Ye  Jocund  Twain!      ....  97 

Old  Age's  Lambent  Peaks 98 

To  Get  the  Final  Lilt  of  Songs 99 

Halcyon  Days 100 

Old  Age's  Ship  &  Crafty  Death's        101 

After  the  Supper  and  Talk         102 

Whispers  of  Heavenly  Death     .......  103 

Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy! 104 

LEAVES  OF  GRASS. 

Inscriptions 107 

Starting  from  Paumanok 109 

Song  of  Myself no 

At  Auction 131 

Calamus 133 

Salut  au  Monde! 137 

Crossing  Brooklyn  Ferry 140 

From  "  Song  of  the  Exposition  "         148 

A  Broadway  Pageant        150 

Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun         155 

The  Ox-Tamer         158 

Proud  Music  of  the  Storm 160 

O  Vast  Rondure 168 

The  Red  Squaw 170 

An  Old  Stage-driver 171 

Mannahatta 173 

After  an  Interval 175 

So  Long! 176 

GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY! 

Good-Bye  My  Fancy! 179 


NATURE,  MAN,  AND  SELF 


TO  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 


THOU  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 
Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 
(Burst  the  wild  storm  ?  above  it  thou  ascended'st, 
And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee.) 
Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating, 
As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee, 
(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast.) 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore  with 

wrecks, 

With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 
The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art  all  wings,) 

To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 

Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 

Days,  even  weeks  untired    and   onward,  through  spaces, 

realms  gyrating, 

At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder-cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  had'st  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys  !  what  joys  were  thine  ! 
'3 


14  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


A   PAUMANOK  PICTURE 


Two  boats  with  nets  lying  off  the  sea-beach,  quite  still, 
Ten    fishermen   waiting — they  discover  a  thick  school  of 

mossbonkers — they  drop  the  join'd  seine-ends  in  the 

water, 
The  boats  separate  and  row  off,  each  on  its  rounding  course 

to  the  beach,  enclosing  the  mossbonkers, 
The  net  is  drawn  in  by  a  windlass  by  those  who  stop  ashore, 
Some  of  the  fishermen  lounge  in  their  boats,  others  stand 

ankle-deep  in  the  water,  pois'd  on  strong  legs, 
The   boats   partly   drawn   up,    the   water   slapping  against 

them, 
Strew'd  on  the  sand  in  heaps  and  windrows,  well  out  from 

the  water,  the  green-back'd  spotted  mossbonkers. 


PATROLING    BARNEGAT  1 5 


PATROLING  BARNEGAT 


WILD,  wild  the  storm,  and  the  sea  high  running, 
Steady  the  roar  of  the  gale,  with  incessant  undertone  mut- 
tering, 

Shouts  of  demoniac  laughter  fitfully  piercing  and  pealing, 
Waves,  air,  midnight,  their  savagest  trinity  lashing, 
Out  in  the  shadows  there  milk-white  combs  careering, 
On  beachy  slush  and  sand  spirts  of  snow  fierce  slanting, 
Where  through  the  murk  the  easterly  death-wind  breasting, 
Through  cutting  swirl  and  spray  watchful  and  firm  advan- 
cing, 

(That  in  the  distance  !    is  that  a  wreck  ?   is  the  red  signal 
flaring  ?) 

Slush  and  sand  of  the  beach  tireless  till  daylight  wending, 
Steadily,  slowly,  through  hoarse  roar  never  remitting, 
Along  the  midnight  edge  by  those  milk-white  combs  career- 
ing, 

A  group  of  dim,  weird  forms,  struggling,  the  night  con- 
fronting, 
That  savage  trinity  warily  watching. 


16  NATURE.    MAN.    AND   SELF 


WITH  HUSKY-HAUGHTY  LIPS,  O  SEA  ' 

WITH  husky-haughty  lips,  O  sea  ! 
Where  day  and  night  I  wend  thy  surf-beat  shore, 
Imaging  to  my  sense  thy  varied  strange  suggestions, 
(I  see  and  plainly  list  thy  talk  and  conference  here,) 
Thy  troops  of  white-maned  racers  racing  to  the  goal, 
Thy  ample,  smiling  face,  dash'd  with  the  sparkling  dimples 

of  the  sun, 

Thy  brooding  scowl  and  murk — thy  unloos'd  hurricanes, 
Thy  unsubduedness,  caprices,  wilfulness; 
Great  as  thou  art  above  the  rest,  thy  many  tears — a  lack 

from  all  eternity  in  thy  content, 
(Naught  but  the  greatest  struggles,  wrongs,  defeats,  could 

make  thee  greatest — no  less  could  make  thee,) 
Thy  lonely  state — something  thou  ever  seek'st  and  seek'st, 

yet  never  gain'st, 

Surely  some  right  withheld — some  voice,  in  huge  monoto- 
nous rage,  of  freedom-lover  pent, 
Some  vast  heart,  like  a  planet's,  chain'd  and  chafing  in  those 

breakers, 

By  lengthen'd  swell,  and  spasm,  and  panting  breath, 
And  rhythmic  rasping  of  thy  sands  and  waves, 
And  serpent  hiss,  and  savage  peals  of  laughter, 
And  undertones  of  distant  lion  roar, 
(Sounding,  appealing  to  the  sky's  deaf  ear — but  now,  rapport 

for  once, 

A  phantom  in  the  night  thy  confidant  for  once,) 
The  first  and  last  confession  of  the  globe, 
Outsurging,  muttering  from  thy  soul's  abysms, 
The  tale  of  cosmic  elemental  passion, 
Thou  tellest  to  a  kindred  soul. 


OLD   SALT   KOSSABONE  17 


OLD    SALT    KOSSABONE 

FAR  back,  related  on  my  mother's  side, 

Old  Salt  Kossabone,  I'll  tell  you  how  he  died: 

(Had  been  a  sailor  all  his  life — was  nearly  90 — lived  with 

his  married  grandchild,  Jenny; 
House  on  a  hill,  with  view  of   bay  at   hand,  and   distant 

cape,  and  stretch  to  open  sea;) 
The  last  of  afternoons,  the  evening  hours,  for  many  a  year 

his  regular  custom, 

In  his  great  arm  chair  by  the  window  seated, 
(Sometimes,  indeed,  through  half  the  day,) 
Watching  the  coming,  going  of  the  vessels,  he  mutters  to 

himself 

— And  now  the  close  of  all: 
One  struggling  outbound  brig,  one  day,  baffled  for  long — 

cross-tides  and  much  wrong  going, 
At  last  at  nightfall  strikes  the  breeze  aright,  her  whole  luck 

veering, 
And  swiftly  bending  round  the  cape,  the  darkness  proudly 

entering,  cleaving,  as  he  watches, 
"  She's   free — she's  on   her  destination  " — these   the    last 

Words — when  Jenny  came,  he  sat  there  dead, 
Dutch  Kossabone,  Old  Salt,  related  on  my  mother's  side, 

far  back. 


1 8  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


TO   THE   SUN-SET   BREEZE 


AH,  whispering,  something  again,  unseen, 

Where  late  this  heated  day  thou  enterest  at  my  window, 
door, 

Thou,  laving,  tempering  all,  cool-freshing,  gently  vitaliz- 
ing 

Me,  old,  alone,  sick,  weak-down,  melted-worn  with  sweat; 

Thou,  nestling,  folding  close  and  firm  yet  soft,  companion 
better  than  talk,  book,  art, 

(Thou  hast,  O  Nature  !  elements  !  utterance  to  my  heart 
beyond  the  rest — and  this  is  of  them,) 

So  sweet  thy  primitive  taste  to  breathe  within — thy  sooth- 
ing fingers  on  my  face  and  hands, 

Thou,  messenger-magical  strange  bringer  to  body  and 
spirit  of  me, 

(Distances  balk'd — occult  medicines  penetrating  me  from 
head  to  foot,) 

I  feel  the  sky,  the  prairies  vast — I  feel  the  mighty  northern 
lakes, 

I  feel  the  ocean  and  the  forest — somehow  I  feel  the  globe 
^  itself  swift-swimming  in  space; 

Thou  blown  from  lips  so  loved,  now  gone — haply  from  end- 
less store,  God-sent, 

(For  thou  art  spiritual,  Godly,  most  .of  all  known  to  my 
sense,) 

Minister  to  speak  to  me,  here  and  now,  what  word  has 
never  told,  and  cannot  tell, 

Art  thou  not  universal  concrete's  distillation?  Law's  all 
Astronomy's  last  refinement? 

Hast  thou  no  soul?     Can  I  not  know,  identity  thee  ? 


FROM  FAR  DAKOTA'S  CASTONS  19 

FROM   FAR   DAKOTA'S    CASfONS 
(June  25,  1876) 

FROM  far  Dakota's  caftons, 

Lands  of  the  wild  ravine,  the  dusky  Sioux,  the  lonesome 

stretch,  the  silence, 
Haply  to-day  a  mournful  wail,  haply  a  trumpet-note  for 

heroes. 

The  battle-bulletin, 

The  Indian  ambuscade,  the  craft,  the  fatal  environment, 

The   cavalry   companies   fighting   to    the    last    in   sternest 

heroism, 
In  the  midst  of  their  little  circle,  with   their  slaughter'd 

horses  for  breastworks, 
The  fall  of  Custer  and  all  his  officers  and  men. 

Continues  yet  the  old,  old  legend  of  our  race, 
The  loftiest  of  life  upheld  by  death, 
The  ancient  banner  perfectly  maintain'd, 
O  lesson  opportune,  O  how  I  welcome  thee  ! 

As  sitting  in  dark  days, 

Lone,  sulky,  through  the   time's    thick   murk   looking   in 

vain  for  light,  for  hope, 

From  unsuspected  parts  a  fierce  and  momentary  proof, 
(The  sun  there  at  the  centre  though  conceal'd, 
Electric  life  forever  at  the  centre,) 
Breaks  forth  a  lightning  flash. 


20  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 

Thou  of  the  tawny  flowing  hair  in  battle, 

I  erewhile  saw,   with  erect  head,  pressing  ever  in  front, 

bearing  a  bright  sword  in  thy  hand, 

Now  ending  well  in  death  the  splendid  fever  of  thy  deeds, 
(I  bring  no  dirge  for  it  or  thee,  I  bring  a  glad  triumphal 

sonnet,) 
Desperate   and   glorious,    aye    in   defeat    most   desperate, 

most  glorious, 
After  thy  many  battles  in  which  never  yielding  up  a  gun 

or  a  color, 

Leaving  behind  thee  a  memory  sweet  to  soldiers, 
Thou  yieldest  up  thyself. 


DEATH  OF  GENERAL  GRANT          21 


DEATH   OF  GENERAL  GRANT 


As  one  by  one  withdraw  the  lofty  actors, 

From  that  great  play  on  history's  stage  eterne, 

That  lurid,  partial  act  of  war  and  peace — of  old  and  new 
contending, 

Fought  out  through  wrath,  fears,  dark  dismays,  and  many 
a  long  suspense; 

All  past— and  since,  in  countless  graves  receding,  mellow- 
ing. 

Victor's  and  vanquish'd — Lincoln's  and  Lee's — now  thou 
with  them, 

Man  of  the  mighty  days — and  equal  to  the  days! 

Thou  from  the  prairies! — tangled  and  many-vein'd  and 
hard  has  been  thy  part. 

To  admiration  has  it  been  enacted! 


22  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


THE   DEAD   TENOR 

As  down  the  stage  again, 

With  Spanish  hat  and  plumes,  and  gait  inimitable, 

Back  from  the  fading  lessons  of  the  past,  I'd  call,  I'd  tell 

and  own, 
How  much  from  thee!  the  revelation  of  the  singing  voice 

from  thee! 
(So   firm — so   liquid-soft — again    that     tremulous,     manly 

timbre! 
The  perfect  singing  voice — deepest  of  all  to  me  the  lesson 

— trial  and  test  of  all:) 
How  through  those  strains  distill'd — how  the  rapt  ears,  the 

soul  of  me,  absorbing 
Fernanda's  heart,  Manrico* s  passionate  call,  Ernani's,  sweet 

Gennaro's, 

I  fold  thenceforth,  or  seek  to  fold,  within  my  chants  trans- 
muting, 

Freedom's  and  Love's  and  Faith's  unloos'd  cantabile, 
(As  perfume's,  color's,  sunlight's  correlation:) 
From    these,  for   these,  with   these,  a  hurried  line,  dead 

tenor, 
A  wafted  autumn    leaf,  dropt    in    the    closing   grave,    the 

shovel'd  earth, 
To  memory  of  thee. 


PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS  23 


PRAYER  OF  COLUMBUS 

A  BATTER'D,  wreck'd  old  man, 

Thrown  on  this  savage  shore,  far,  far  from  home, 

Pent  by  the  sea  and  dark  rebellious  brows,  twelve  dreary 

months, 

Sore,  stiff  with  many  toils,  sicken'd  and  nigh  to  death, 
I  take  my  way  along  the  island's  edge, 
Venting  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  too  full  of  woe  ! 

Haply  I  may  not  live  another  day  ; 

I  cannot  rest  O  God,  I  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  sleep, 

Till  I  put  forth  myself,  my  prayer,  once  more  to  Thee, 

Breathe,  bathe  myself  once  more  in  Thee,  commune  with 

Thee, 
Report  myself  once  more  to  Thee. 

Thou  knowest  my  years  entire,  my  life, 

My  long  and  crowded  life  of  active  work,  not  adoration 
merely; 

Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  my  youth, 

Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  visionary  med- 
itations, 

Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I  devoted  all  to 
come  to  Thee, 

Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all  those  vows  and 
strictly  kept  them, 

Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith  nor  ecstasy  in 
Thee, 


24  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 

In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining  not, 
Accepting  all  from  Thee,  as  duly  come  from  Thee. 

Ail  my  emprises  have  been  fill'd  with  Thee, 

My  speculations,  plans,  begun  and  carried  on  in  thoughts 

of  Thee, 

Sailing  the  deep  or  journeying  the  land  for  Thee; 
Intentions,  purports,  aspirations  mine,  leaving  results  to 

Thee. 

O  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 

The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 

The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,  stronger  than  words, 

A  message  from  the  Heavens  whispering  to  me  even  in  sleep, 

These  sped  me  on. 

By  me  and  these  the  work  so  far  accomplish'd, 

By  me  earth's  elder  cloy'd  and  stifled  lands  uncloy'd,  un- 

loos'd, 
By  me  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied,  the  unknown  to 

the  known. 

The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 

Or  smaller  great  I  know  not — haply  what  broad  fields,  what 

lands, 

Haply  the  brutish  measureless  human  undergrowth  I  know, 
Transplanted  there  may  rise  to  stature,  knowledge  worthy 

Thee, 
Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  be  turn'd  to  reaping- 

tools, 
Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's  dead  cross,  may 

bud  and  blossom  there. 


PRAYER   OF  COLUMBUS  2$ 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand; 

That  Thou  O  God  my  life  hast  lighted, 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of  Thee, 

Light  rare  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 

Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages; 

For  that  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  \vord,  here  on  my  knees, 

Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 

The  voyage  balk'd,  the  course  disputed,  lost, 

I  yield  my  ships  to  Thee. 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless. 

My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder'd. 

Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 

I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves  buffet  me, 

Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 

Is  it  the  prophet's  thought  I  speak,  or  am  I  raving? 
What  do  I  know  of  life?  what  of  myself? 
I  know  not  even  my  own  work  past  or  present, 
Dim  ever-shifting  guesses  of  it  spread  before  me, 
Of  newer  better  worlds,  their  mighty  parturition, 
Mocking,  perplexing  me. 

And  these  things  I  see  suddenly,  what  mean  they? 
As  if  some  miracle,  some  hand  divine  unseal'd  my  eyes, 
Shadowy  vast  shapes  smile  through  the  air  and  sky, 
And  on  the  distant  waves  sail  countless  ships, 
And  anthems  in  new  tongues  I  hear  saluting  me. 


26  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


OLD  IRELAND 


FAR  hence  amid  an  isle  of  wondrous  beauty, 

Crouching  over  a  grave  an  ancient  sorrowful  mother, 

Once  a  queen,  now  lean  and  tatter'd  seated  on  the  ground, 

Her  old  white  hair  drooping  dishevel'd  round  her  shoulders, 

At  her  feet  fallen  an  unused  royal  harp, 

Long  silent,  she  too  long  silent,  mourning  her  shrouded 

hope  and  heir, 
Of  all  the  earth  her  heart  most  full  of  sorrow  because  most 

full  of  love. 

Yet  a  word  ancient  mother, 

You  need  crouch  there  no  longer  on  the  cold  ground  with 

forehead  between  your  knees, 
O  you  need  not  sit  there  veil'd  in  your  old  white  hair  so 

dishevel'd, 

For  know  you  the  one  you  mourn  is  not  in  that  grave, 
It  was  an  illusion,  the  son  you  love  was  not  really  dead, 
The  Lord  is  not  dead,  he  is  risen  again  young  and  strong  in 

another  country, 

Even  while  you  wept  there  by  your  fallen  harp  by  the  grave, 
What  you  wept  for  was  translated,  pass'd  from  the  grave, 
The  winds  favor'd  and  the  sea  sail'd  it, 
And  now  with  rosy  and  new  blood, 
Moves  to-day  in  a  new  country. 


O   STAR   OF   FRANCE  2J 

O   STAR    OF   FRANCE 

(1870-71) 

O  STAR  of  France, 

The  brightness  of  thy  hope  and  strength  and  fame, 
Like  some  proud  ship  that  led  the  fleet  so  long, 
Beseems  to-day  a  wreck  driven  by    the  gale,  a  mastless 

hulk, 

And  'mid  its  teeming  madden'd  half-drown'd  crowds, 
Nor  helm  nor  helmsman. 

Dim  smitten  star, 

Orb  not  of  France  alone,  pale  symbol  of  my  soul,  its  dear- 
est hopes, 

The  struggle  and  the  daring,  rage  divine  for  liberty, 

Of  aspirations  toward  the  far  ideal,  enthusiast's  dreams  of 
brotherhood. 

Of  terror  to  the  tyrant  and  the  priest. 

Star  crucified — by  traitors  sold, 

Star  panting  o'er  a  land  of  death,  heroic  land, 

Strange,  passionate,  mocking,  frivolous  land. 

Miserable  !  yet  for  thy  errors,   vanities,   sins,  I   will  not 

now  rebuke  thee, 

Thy  unexampled  woes  and  pangs  have  quell'd  them  all, 
And  left  thee  sacred. 

In  that  amid  thy  many  faults  thou  ever  aimedst  highly, 
In  that  thou  wouldst  not  really  sell  thyself  however  great 
the  price, 


28  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


In  that   thou    surely    vvakedst  weeping  from  thy  drugg'd 

sleep, 
In  that  alone  among  thy  sisters  thou,  giantess,  didst  rend 

the  ones  that  shamed  thee, 
In  that   thou   couldst   not,  wouldst   not,  wear   the    usual 

chains, 

This  cross,  thy  livid  face,  thy  pierced  hands  and  feet, 
The  spear  thrust  in  thy  side. 

O  star!  O  ship  of  France,  beat  back  and  baffled  long  J 
Bear  up  O  smitten  orb!     O  ship  continue  on! 

Sure  as  the  ship  of  all,  the  Earth  itself, 
Product  of  deathly  fire  and  turbulent  chaos, 
Forth  from  its  spasms  of  fury  and  its  poisons, 
Issuing  at  last  in  perfect  power  and  beauty, 
Onward  beneath  the  sun  following  its  course, 
So  thee  O  ship  of  France! 

Finish'd  the  days,  the  clouds  dispel'd, 
The  travail  o'er,  the  long-sought  extrication, 
When  lo!  reborn,  high  o'er  the  European  world, 
(In  gladness  answering  thence,  as  face  afar  to  face,  reflect- 
ing ours  Columbia,) 

Again  thy  star  O  France,  fair  lustrous  star, 
In  heavenly  peace,  clearer,  more  bright  than  ever. 
Shall  beam  immortal. 


THE  JUSTIFIED   MOTHER   OF  MEN  29 


THE  JUSTIFIED   MOTHER  OF  MEN 


THE  old  face  of  the  mother  of  many  children, 
Whist!  I  am  fully  content. 

Lull'd  and  late  is  the  smoke  of  the  First-day  morning, 

It  hangs  low  over  the  rows  of  trees  by  the  fences, 

It  hangs  thin  by  the  sassafras  and  wild-cherry  and  cat-brier 

under  them. 

I  saw  the  rich  ladies  in  full  dress  at  the  soiree, 
I  heard  what  the  singers  were  singing  so  long, 
Heard  who  sprang  in  crimson  youth  from  the  white  froth 

and  the  water-blue. 

Behold  a  woman! 

She  looks  out  from  her  quaker  cap,  her  face  is  clearer  and 
more  beautiful  than  the  sky. 

She  sits  in  an  armchair  under  the  shaded  porch  of  the  farm- 
house, 
The  sun  just  shines  on  her  old  white  head. 

Her  ample  gown  is  of  cream-hued  linen, 
Her  grandsons  raised  the  flax,  and   her  grand-daughters 
spun  it  with  the  distaff  and  the  wheel. 

The  melodious  character  of  the  earth, 

The  finish  beyond  which  philosophy  cannot  go  and  does 

not  wish  to  go, 
The  justified  mother  of  men. 


30  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


SPIRIT   THAT   FORM'D    THIS   SCENE 
( Written  in  Platte  Canon,  Colorado) 

SPIRIT  that  form'd  this  scene, 

These  tumbled  rock-piles  grim  and  red, 

These  reckless  heaven-ambitious  peaks, 

These  gorges,  turbulent-clear  streams,  this  naked  fresh- 
ness, 

These  formless  wild  arrays,  for  reasons  of  their  own, 

I  know  thee,  savage  spirit — we  have  communed  together, 

Mine  too  such  wild  arrays,  tor  reasons  of  their  own; 

Was't  charged  against  my  chants  they  had  forgotten  art? 

To  fuse  within  themselves  its  rules  precise  and  delicatesse? 

The  lyrist's  measur'd  beat,  the  wrought-out  temple's 
grace — column  and  polish'd  arch  forgot? 

But  thou  that  revelest  here — spirit  that  form'd  this  scene, 

They  have  remember'd  thee. 


WHEN   I   HEARD  THE   LEARN  D   ASTRONOMER 


WHEN    I    HEARD   THE  LEARN'D  ASTRONOMER 


WHEN  I  heard  the  learn'd  astronomer, 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were  ranged  in  columns  be- 
fore me, 

When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add,  divide, 
and  measure  them, 

When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lectured 
with  much  applause  in  the  lecture-room, 

How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired  and  sick, 

Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 

In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time, 

Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 


32  NATURE,    MAN,    AND  SELF 

OUT  FROM  BEHIND  THIS  MASK 

(.70  Confront  a  Portrait') 


OUT  from  behind  this  bending  rough-cut  mask, 

These  lights  and  shades,  this  drama  of  the  whole, 

This  common  curtain  of  the  face  contain'd  in  me  for  me,  in 
you  for  you,  in  each  for  each, 

(Tragedies,  sorrows,  laughter,  tears — O  heaven! 

The  passionate  teeming  plays  this  curtain  hid!) 

This  glaze  of  God's  serenest  purest  sky, 

This  film  of  Satan's  seething  pit, 

This  heart's  geography's  map,  this  limitless  small  conti- 
nent, this  soundless  sea; 

Out  from  the  convolutions  of  this  globe, 

This  subtler  astronomic  orb  than  sun  or  moon,  than  Jupi- 
ter, Venus,  Mars, 

This  condensation  of  the  universe,  (nay  here  the  only  uni- 
verse, 

Here  the  idea,  all  in  this  mystic  handful  wrapt;) 

These  burin'd  eyes,  flashing  to  you  to  pass  to  future  time, 

To  launch  and  spin  through  space  revolving  sideling,  from 
these  to  emanate, 

To  you  whoe'er  you  are — a  look. 


A  traveler  of  thoughts  and  years,  of  peace  and  war, 
Of  youth  long  sped  and  middle  age  declining, 


OUT   FROM    BEHIND   THIS   MASK  33 

(As  the  first  volume  of  a  tale  perused  and  laid  away,  and 

this  the  second, 

Songs,  ventures,  speculations,  presently  to  close,) 
Lingering  a  moment  here  and  now,  to  you  I  opposite  turn, 
As  on  the  road  or  at  some  crevice  door   by  chance,  or 

open'd  window, 

Pausing,  inclining,  baring  my  head,  you  specially  I  greet, 
To  draw  and  clinch  your  soul  for  once  inseparably  with 

mine, 
Then  travel  travel  on. 


34  NATURE,    MAN,    AND   SELF 


RECORDERS  AGES  HENCE 


RECORDERS  ages  hence, 

Come,  I  will  take  you  down  underneath  this  impassive  ex- 
terior, I  will  tell  you  what  to  say  of  me, 
Publish  my  name  and  hang  up  my  picture  as  that  of  the 

tenderest  lover. 
The  friend  the  lover's  portrait,  of  whom  his  friend  his  lover 

was  fondest, 
Who  was  not  proud  of  his  songs,  but  of  the  measureless 

ocean  of  loVe  within  him,  and  freely  pour'd  it  forth, 
Who   often  walk'd  lonesome    walks  thinking  of   his  dear 

friends,  his  lovers, 
Who  pensive  away  from  one  he  lov'd  often  lay  sleepless 

and  dissatisfied  at  night, 
Who  knew  too  well  the  sick,  sick  dread   lest  the  one  he 

lov'd  might  secretly  be  indifferent  to  him, 
Whose  happiest   days    were  far  away   through    fields,   in 

woods,  on   hills,  he  and  another  wandering  hand    in 

hand,  they  twain  apart  from  other  men, 
Who  oft  as  he  saunter'd  the  streets  curv'd  with  his  arm  the 

shoulder  of  his  friend ,  while  the  arm  of  his  friend  rested 

upon  him  also. 


BY  BROAD  POTOMAC'S  SHORE  35 


BY  BROAD  POTOMAC'S  SHORE 


BY  broad  Potomac's  shore,  again  old  tongue, 

(Still  uttering,  still  ejaculating,  canst  never  cease  this  bab- 
ble ?) 

Again  old  heart  so  gay,  again  to  you,  your  sense,  the  full 
flush  spring  returning, 

Again  the  freshness  and  the  odors,  again  Virginia's  sum- 
mer sky,  pellucid  blue  and  silver, 

Again  the  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills, 

Again  the  deathless  grass,  so  noiseless  soft  and  green, 

Again  the  blood-red  roses  blooming. 

Perfume  this  book  of  mine  O  blood-red  roses! 

Lave  subtly  with  your  waters  every  line  Potomac! 

Give  me  of  you  O  spring,  before  I  close,  to  put  between  its 

pages! 

O  forenoon  purple  of  the  hills,  before  I  close,  of  you! 
O  deathless  grass,  of  you! 


INTERLUDES 


THE   MYSTIC   TRUMPETER  39 


THE  MYSTIC  TRUMPETER 


HARK,  some  wild  trumpeter,  some  strange  musician. 
Hovering  unseen  in  air,  vibrates  capricious  tunes  to-night. 

I  hear  thee  trumpeter,  listening  alert  I  catch  thy  notes, 
Now  pouring,  whirling  like  a  tempest  round  me, 
Now  low,  subdued,  now  in  the  distance  lost. 


Come  nearer  bodiless  one,  haply  in  thee  resounds 

Some  dead  composer,  haply  thy  pensive  life  ~ 

Was  fill'd  with  aspirations  high,  unform'd  ideals, 

Waves,  oceans  musical,  chaotically  surging, 

That  now  ecstatic  ghost,  close  to  me  bending,  thy  cornet 

echoing,  pealing, 
Gives  out  to  no  one's  ears  but  mine,  but  freely  gives  to 

mine, 
That  I  may  thee  translate. 


Blow  trumpeter  free  and  clear,  I  follow  thee, 

While  at  thy  liquid  prelude,  glad,  serene, 

The  fretting   world,  the  streets,  the  noisy   hours  of  day 

withdraw, 

A  holy  calm  descends  like  dew  upon  me, 
I  walk  in  cool  refreshing  night  the  walks  of  Paradise, 
I  scent  the  grass,  the  moist  air  and  the  roses; 


40  INTERLUDES 

Thy  song  expands  my  numb'd  imbonded  spirit,  thou  freest, 

launchest  me, 
Floating  and  basking  upon  heaven's  lake. 


Blow  again  trumpeter!  and  for  my  sensuous  eyes, 
Bring  the  old  pageants,  show  the  feudal  world. 

What  charm  thy  music  works!  thou  makest  pass  before  me, 
Ladies  and  cavaliers  long  dead,  barons   are  in  their  castle 

halls,  the  troubadours  are  singing, 
Arm'd  knights  go  forth  to  redress  wrongs,  some  in  quest 

of  the  holy  Graal; 
I   see  the  tournament,   I  see   the    contestants  incased  in 

heavy  armor  seated  on  stately  champing  horses, 
I  hear  the  shouts,  the  sounds  of  blows  and  smiting  steel; 
I  see  the  Crusaders'  tumultuous  armies — hark,  how  the 

cymbals  clang, 
Lo,  where  the  monks  walk  in  advance,  bearing  the  cross  on 

high. 

5 

Blow  again  trumpeter!  and  for  thy  theme, 

Take  now  the  enclosing  theme  of  all,  the  solvent  and  the 

setting, 

Love,  that  is  pulse  of  all,  the  sustenance  and  the  pang, 
The  heart  of  man  and  woman  all  for  love, 
No  other  theme  but  love — knitting,  enclosing,  all-diffusing 

love. 

0  how  the  immortal  phantoms  crowd  around  me! 

1  see  the  vast  alembic  ever  working,  I  see  and  know  the 

flames  that  heat  the  world, 
The  glow,  the  blush,  the  beating  hearts  of  lovers, 


THE   MYSTIC   TRUMPETER  41 

So  blissful  happy  some,  and  some  so  silent,  dark,  and  nigh 

to  death; 
Love,  that  is  all  the  earth  to  lovers — love,  that  mocks  time 

and  space, 
Love,  that  is  day  and  night — love,  that  is  sun  and  moon 

and  stars, 

Love,  that  is  crimson,  sumptuous,  sick  with  perfume, 
No  other  words  but  words  of  love,  no  other  thought  but 

love. 


Blow  again  trumpeter — conjure  war's  alarums. 

Swift  to  thy  spell  a  shuddering  hum  like  distant  thunder 

rolls, 
Lo,  where  the  arm'd  men  hasten — lo,  mid  the  clouds  of 

dust  the  glint  of  bayonets, 
I  see  the  grime-faced  cannoneers,  I  mark  the  rosy  flash 

amid  the  smoke,  I  hear  the  cracking  of  the  guns; 
Nor  war  alone — thy  fearful  music-song,  wild  player,  brings 

every  sight  of  fear, 
The  deeds  of  ruthless  brigands,  rapine,  murder — I  hear  the 

cries  for  help! 
I  see  ships  foundering  at  sea,  I  behold  on  deck  and  below 

deck  the  terrible  tableaus. 


O  trumpeter,  methinks  I  am  myself  the  instrument  thou 

playest* 
Thou  melt'st  my  heart,  my  brain — thou  movest,  d rawest, 

changes!  them  at  will; 

And  now  thy  sullen  notes  send  darkness  through  me, 
Thou  takest  away  all  cheering  light,  all  hope, 


42  INTERLUDES 

I  see  the  enslaved,  the  overthrown,  the  hurt,  the  opprest  of 

the  whole  earth, 
I  feel  the  measureless  shame  and  humiliation  of  my  race,  it 

becomes  all  mine, 
Mine  too  the  revenges  of  humanity,  the  wrongs  of  ages, 

baffled  feuds  and  hatreds, 

Utter  defeat  upon  me  weighs — all  lost — the  foe  victorious, 
(Yet  'mid  the  ruins  Pride  colossal  stands  unshaken  to  the 

last, 
Endurance,  resolution  to  the  last.) 

8 

Now  trumpeter  for  thy  close, 

Vouchsafe  a  higher  strain  than  any  yet, 

Sing  to  my  soul,  renew  its  languishing  faith  and  hope, 

Rouse  up  my  slow  belief,  give  me  some  vision  of  the  future, 

Give  me  for  once  its  prophecy  and  joy. 

O  glad,  exulting,  culminating  song! 

A  vigor  more  than  earth's  is  in  thy  notes, 

Marches  of  victory — man  disenthrall — the  conqueror  at 
last, 

Hymns  to  the  universal  God  from  universal  man — all  joy! 

A  reborn  race  appears — a  perfect  world,  all  joy! 

Women  and  men  in  wisdom  innocence  and  health — all  joy! 

Riotous  laughing  bacchanals  fill'd  with  joy! 

War,  sorrow,  suffering  gone — the  rank  earth  purged — noth- 
ing but  joy  left! 

The  ocean  fill'd  with  joy — the  atmosphere  all  joy! 

Joy!  joy!  in  freedom,  worship,  love!  joy  in  the  ecstasy  of 
life! 

Enough  to  merely  be!  enough  to  breathe! 

Joy!  joy!  all  over  joy! 


FROM    "OUT   OF  THE  CRADLE"  43 


FROM  "OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY 
ROCKING" 

ONCE  Paumanok, 

When  the  lilac-scent  was  in  the  air  and  Fifth-month  grass 
was  growing, 

Up  this  seashore  in  some  briers, 

Two  feather'd  guests  from  Alabama,  two  together, 

And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs  spotted  with 
brown, 

And  every  day  the  he-bird  to  and  fro  near  at  hand, 

And  every  day  the  she-bird  crouch'd  on  her  nest,  silent, 
with  bright  eyes, 

And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close,  never  dis- 
turbing them, 

Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

Shine  !  shine  !  shine  ! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun  ! 

While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 

Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  south,  or  winds  blow  north. 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black. 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May-be  killed,  unknown  to  her  mate, 


44  INTERLUDES 

One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 
Nor  return'd  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next 
Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 

And  thenceforward  all  summer  in  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

And  at  night  under  the  full  of  the  moon  in  calmer  weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 

Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 

I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals  the  remaining  one,  the  he-bird, 

The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

Blow  !  Blow  !  Blow  ! 

Blow  up  sea-winds  along-  Paumanok* s  shore  ; 

I  wait  and  I  wait  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glisten'd, 

All  night  long  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer  wonderful  causing  tears. 

He  call'd  on  his  mate, 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I  of  all  men  know. 

Yes  my  brother  I  know, 

The  rest  might  not,  but  I  have  treasur'd  every  note, 
For  more  than  once  dimly  down  to  the  beach  gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with  the 

shadows, 
Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the  sounds 

and  sights  after  their  sorts, 

The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listen'd  long  and  long. 


FROM    "OUT   OF  THE  CRADLE"  45 

Listen'd  to  keep,  to  sing,  now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you  my  brother. 

Soothe  !  soothe  !  soothe  ! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping,  every  one 

close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  rose  late, 

It  is  lagging —  O  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

O  night  !  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  among  the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ? 

Loud!  Lotid!  Loud! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  ! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves, 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here, 

You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 

Low-hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 

O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 

O  moon  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land!  land!  O  land ! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think  vou  could  give  me  my  mate 

back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 


46  INTERLUDES 


0  rising  stars  ! 

Perhaps  the  one  1  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with  some 
of  you. . 

O  throat  !  O  trembling  throat ! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols  ! 

Solitary  here,  the  night1  s  carols  ! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  death 's  carols  ! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  ! 

O  tinder  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down  into  the  sea  ! 

O  reckless  despairing  carols. 

But  soft  !  sink  low  ! 
Soft  !  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-nois*  d  sea, 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding  to  me, 
So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 

But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come  immedi- 
ately to  me. 

Hither  my  love  ! 

Here  I  am  !   here  ! 

With  this  just-sustain  d note  I  announce  myself  to  you, 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy1  d  elsewhere, 

That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind,  it  is  not  my  voice, 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 


FROM   "OUT  OF  THE  CRADLE"  47 

O  darkness  !  O  in  vain  ! 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrow  fill, 

O  broivn  halo  in  tfie  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon  the  sea  t 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  ! 

O  throat !  O  throbbing  heart  ! 

And  I  singing  uselessly •,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

O  past  !  O  happy  life  !  O  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved!  loved!  loved !  loved !  loved! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me  I 
We  two  together  no  more. 

The  aria  sinking, 

All  else  continuing,  the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing,  the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous  echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly  moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore  gray  and  rustling, 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  drooping, 

the  face  of  the  sea  almost  touching, 
The  boy  ecstatic,  with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with  his  hair 

the  atmosphere  dallying, 
The   love   in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at  last 

tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  soul,  swiftly  depositing, 
The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 
The  colloquy  there,  the  trio,  each  uttering. 
The  undertone,  the  savage  old  mother  incessantly  crying, 
To  the  boy's  soul's  questions  sullenly  timing,  some  drown'd 

secret  hissing, 
To  the  outsetting  bard. 


48  INTERLUDES 


SONG  OF  THE  UNIVERSAL 


COME  said  the  Muse, 

Sing  me  a  song  no  poet  yet  has  chanted, 

Sing  me  the  universal. 

In  this  broad  earth  of  ours, 
Amid  the  measureless  grossness  and  the  slag, 
Enclosed  and  safe  within  its  central  heart, 
Nestles  the  seed  perfection. 

By  every  life  a  share  or  more  or  less, 

None  born  but  it  is  born,  conceal'd  or  unconceal'd  the  seed 
is  waiting. 


Lo  !  keen-eyed  towering  science, 

As  from  tall  peaks  the  modern  overlooking, 

Successive  absolute  fiats  issuing. 

Yet  again,  lo  !  the  soul,  above  all  science, 

For  it  has  history  gather'd  like  husks  around  the  globe, 

For  it  the  entire  star-myriads  roll  through  the  sky. 

In  spiral  routes  by  long  detours, 
(As  a  much-tacking  ship  upon  the  sea,) 
For  it  the  partial  to  the  permanent  flowing, 
For  it  the  real  to  the  ideal  tends. 


SONG   OF  THE   UNIVERSAL  49 

For  it  the  mystic  evolution, 

Not  the  right  only  justified,  what  we  call  evil  also  justified. 

Forth  from  their  masks,  no  matter  what, 

From  the  huge   festering  trunk,  from   craft  and   guile  and 

tears, 
Health  to  emerge  and  joy,  joy  universal. 

Out  of  the  bulk,  the  morbid  and  the  shallow. 

Out  of  the  bad  majority,  the  varied  countless  frauds  of  men 

and  states, 

Electric,  antiseptic  yet,  cleaving,  suffusing  all. 
Only  the  good  is  universal. 


3 


Over  the  mountain-growths,  disease  and  sorrow, 
An  uncaught  bird  is  ever  hovering,  hovering, 
High  in  the  purer,  happier  air. 

From  imperfection's  murkiest  cloud, 
Darts  always  forth  one  ray  of  perfect  light, 
One  flash  of  heaven's  glory. 

To  fashion's,  custom's  discord, 
To  the  mad  Babel-din,  the  deafening  orgies, 
Soothing  each  lull  a  strain  is  heard,  just  heard, 
From  some  far  shore  the  final  chorus  sounding. 

O  the  blest  eyes,  the  happy  hearts, 

That  see,  that  know  the  guiding  thread  so  fine, 

Along  the  mighty  labyrinth. 


50  INTERLUDES 


And  thou  America, 

For  the  scheme's  culmination,  its  thought  and  its  reality, 

For  these  (not  for  thyself)  thou  hast  arrived. 

Thou  too  surroundest  all, 

Embracing  carrying  welcoming  all,  thou   too  by  pathways 

broad  and  new, 
To  the  ideal  tendest. 

The  measur'd  faiths  of  other  lands,  the  grandeurs  of  the  past, 
Are  not  for  thee,  but  grandeurs  of  thine  own, 
Deific  faiths  and  amplitudes,  absorbing,  comprehending  all, 
All  eligible  to  all. 

All,  all  for  immortality, 
Love  like  the  light  silently  wrapping  all, 
Nature's  amelioration  blessing  all, 

The  blossoms,  fruits  of  ages,  orchards  divine  and  certain, 
Forms,  objects,  growths,  humanities,  to  spiritual  images 
ripening. 

Give  me  O  God  to  sing  that  thought, 

Give  me,  give  him  or  her  I  love  this  quenchless  faith, 

In   Thy  ensemble,    whatever   else   withheld    withhold  not 

from  us, 

Belief  in  plan  of  Thee  enclosed  in  Time  and  Space, 
Health,  peace,  salvation  universal. 

Is  it  a  dream? 

Nay  but  the  lack  of  it  the  dream, 

And  failing  it  life's  lore  and  wealth  a  dream, 

And  all  the  world  a  dream. 


PIONEERS  !    O   PIONEERS  ! 


PIONEERS!    O  PIONEERS! 


COME  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready, 
Have  you  your  pistols?  have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes  ? 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 
We  must  march  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of 

danger, 
We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


O  you  youths,  Western  youths. 

So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friend- 
ship, 
Plain  I  see  you  Western  youths,  see  you  tramping  with  the 

foremost, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


Have  the  elder  races  halted  ? 
Do  they  droop  and  end   their  lesson,  wearied  over  there 

beyond  the  seas  ? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the  lesson, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


52  INTERLUDES 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 

We  debouch  upon  a  newer  mightier  world,  varied  world, 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor  and  the 
march, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 

Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes, up  the  mountains  steep. 
Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the  un- 
known ways, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we  and   piercing  deep  the 

mines  within, 

We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we   the   virgin  soil  up- 
heaving, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Colorado  men  are  we, 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the 

high  plateaus, 

From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail 
we  come, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 

Central   inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  con- 
tinental blood  intervein'd. 
All  the  hand  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the 

Northern, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


PIONEERS  !    O   PIONEERS  !  53 

O  resistless  restless  race  ! 
O  beloved  race  in  all  !  O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love 

for  all  ! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 

Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry  mis- 
tress, (bend  your  heads  all,) 
Raise  the  fang'd   and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive, 

weapon'd  mistress, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children, 
By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield  or 

falter, 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind  us 

urging, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 
With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the  dead 

quickly  fill'd, 
Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and  never 

stopping, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  to  die  advancing  on  ! 

Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die  ?  has  the  hour  come  ? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap 
is  fill'd. 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


54  INTERLUDES 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 

Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement  beat, 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving  to  the  front,  all 
for  us, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 

All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their 
slaves, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 
All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and  the 

wicked, 
All  the  joyous,  all  the   sorrowing,  all   the   living,  all  the 

dying, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


I  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 

We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way, 
Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  appari- 
tions pressing, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


Lo,  the  darting  bowling  orb  ! 
Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  sons  and 

planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


PIONEERS  !    O   PIONEERS  !  55 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there  in 

embryo  wait  behind, 
We  to-day's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel 

clearing, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West  ! 
O  you  young  and  elder  daughters  !  O  you  mothers  and  you 

wives  ! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies  ! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,   you   may  rest,  you  have 

done  your  work,) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp 

amid  us, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Not  for  delectations  sweet, 
Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the   peaceful  and  the 

studious, 

Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoy- 
ment, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast  ? 
Do  the   corpulent  sleepers   sleep  ?    have    they   lock'd  and 

bolted  doors  ? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


56  INTERLUDES 

Has  the  night  descended  ? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome  ?  did  we  stop  discouraged 

nodding  on  our  way  ?  * 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  track  to  pause 

oblivious, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  .' 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call — hark  !  how  loud  and  clear  I 

hear  it  wind, 
Swift  !  to  the  head  of  the  army  !  —  swift  !  spring  to  your 

places, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


DRUM-TAPS 


FIRST   O  SONGS  FOR   A   PRELUDE 


FIRST  O  SONGS  FOR  A  PRELUDE 

FIRST  O  songs  for  a  prelude, 

Lightly  strike  on  the  stretch'cl  tympanum  pride  and  joy  in 

my  city, 

How  she  led  the  rest  to  arms,  how  she  gave  the  cue, 
How  at  once   with   lithe   limbs  unwaiting  a  moment  she 

sprang, 

(O  superb  !  O  Manhattan,  my  own,  my  peerless  ! 
O  strongest  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  in  crisis  !    O  truer 

than  steel  !) 
How  you  sprang — how  you  threw  off  the  costumes  of  peace 

with  indifferent  hand, 
llnw  your  soft  opera-music  changed,  and  the  drum  and  fife 

were  heard  in  their  stead, 
How  you  led  to  the  war,  (that  shall  serve  for  our  prelude, 

songs  of  soldiers,) 
How  Manhattan  drum-taps  led. 

Forty  years  had  I  in  my  city  seen  soldiers  parading, 
Forty  years  as  a  pageant,  till  unawares  the  lady  of  this 

teeming  and  turbulent  city, 
Sleepless    amid    her    ships,  her    houses,  her    incalculable 

wealth, 

With  her  million  children  around  her,  suddenly. 
At  dead  of  night,  at  news  from  the  south, 
Incens'd  struck  with  clinch'd  hand  the  pavement. 

A  shock  electric,  the  night  sustain'd  it, 

Till  with  ominous  hum  our  hive  at  daybreak  pour'd  out  its 
myriads. 


60  DRUM-TAPS 


From  the  houses  then  and  the  workshops,  and  through  all 

the  doorways, 
Leapt  they  tumultuous,  and  lo  !  Manhattan  arming. 

To  the  drum-taps  prompt, 

The  young  men  falling  in  and  arming, 

The  mechanics  arming,  (the   trowel,   the  jack-plane,    the 

blacksmith's  hammer,  tost  aside  with  precipitation,) 
The  lawyer  leaving  his  office  and  arming,  the  judge  leaving 

the  court, 
The  driver  deserting  his  wagon  in  the  street,  jumping  down, 

throwing  the  reins  abruptly  down  on  the  horses'  backs, 
The   salesman   leaving   the   store,    the    boss,  book-keeper, 

porter,  all  leaving  ; 

Squads  gather  everywhere  by  common  consent  and  arm, 
The  new  recruits,  even  boys,  the  old  men  show  them  how 

to  wear  their  accoutrements,  they  buckle  the  straps 

carefully, 

Outdoors  arming,  indoors  arming,  the  flash  of  the  musket- 
barrels, 
The  white,  tents  cluster  in  camps,  the  arm'd  sentries  around , 

the  sunrise  cannon  and  again  at  sunset, 
Arm'd  regiments  arrive  every  day,  pass  through  the  city, 

and  embark  from  the  wharves, 
(How  good   they  look  as  they  tramp  down  to  the  river, 

sweaty,  with  their  guns  on  their  shoulders  ! 
How  I  love  them  !  how  I  could  hug  them,  with  their  brown 

faces  and  their  clothes  and  knapsacks  cover'd  with  dust  !) 
The  blood  of   the  city  up— arm'd  !    arm'd  !    the  cry  every- 
where, 
The  flags  flung  out  from  the  steeples  of  churches  and  from 

all  the  public  buildings  and  stores, 
The  tearful  parting,  the  mother  kisses  her  son,  the  son 

kisses  his  mother, 


FIRST   O   SONGS   FOR   A    PRELUDE  6l 


(Loth  is  the  mother  to  part,  yet  not  a  word  does  she  speak 

to  detain  him,) 
The  tumultuous  escort,  the  ranks  of  policemen  preceding, 

clearing  the  way, 
The  unpent  enthusiasm,  the  wild  cheers  of  the  crowd  for 

their  favorites, 
The  artillery,   the    silent  cannons   bright  as   gold,   drawn 

along,  rumble  lightly  over  the  stones, 
(Silent  cannons,  soon  to  cease  your  silence, 
Soon  unlimber'd  to  begin  the  red  business;) 
All  the  mutter  of  preparation,  all  the  determin'd  arming, 
The  hospital  service,  the  lint,  bandages  and  medicines, 
The  women  volunteering  for  nurses,  the  work  begun  for  in 

earnest,  no  mere  parade  now  ; 
War  !  an  arm'd  race  is  advancing  !    the  welcome  for  battle, 

no  turning  away  ; 

War  !    be  it  weeks,  months,  or  years,  an  arm'd  race  is  ad- 
vancing to  welcome  it. 

Mannahatta  a-march — and  it's  O  to  sing  it  well ! 
It's  O  for  a  manly  life  in  the  camp. 

And  the  sturdy  artillery, 

The  guns  bright  as  gold,  the  work  for  giants,  to  serve  well 

the  guns, 
Unlimber  them  !  (no  more  as  the  past  forty  years  for  salutes 

for  courtesies  merely, 
Put  in  something  now  besides  powder  and  wadding. 

And  you  lady  of  ships,  you  Mannahatta, 

Old  matron  of  this  proud,  friendly,  turbulent  city, 

Often   in  peace  and   wealth  you  were  pensive  or  covertly 

frown'd  amid  all  your  children, 
But  now  you  smile  with  joy  exulting  old  Mannahatta. 


62  DRUM-TAPS 


BEAT  !  BEAT  !  DRUMS  ! 


BEAT  !  beat  !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Through  the  windows— through  doors — burst  like  a  ruth- 
less force, 

Into  the  solemn  church,  and  scatter  the  congregation, 

Into  the  school  where  the  scholar  is  studying  ; 

Leave  not  the  bridegroom  quiet — no  happiness  must  he 
have  now  with  his  bride, 

Nor  the  peaceful  farmer  any  peace,  ploughing  his  field  or 
gathering  his  grain, 

So  fierce  you  whirr  and  pound  you  drums — so  shrill  you 
bugles  blow. 


Beat  !  beat  !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 

Over  the  traffic  of  cities — over  the  rumble  of  wheels  in  the 

streets  ; 
Are  beds  prepared  for  sleepers  at  night  in  the  houses?    no 

sleepers  must  sleep  in  those  beds, 
No  bargainers'  bargains  by  day — no  brokers  or  speculators 

— would  they  continue  ? 
Would  the  talkers  be  talking  ?   would  the  singer  attempt  to 

sing? 
Would  the  lawyer  rise  in  the  court  to  state  his  case  before 

the  judge? 
Then    rattle   quicker,  heavier  drums — you  bugles  wilder 

blow. 


BEAT  !    BEAT  !    DRUMS  !  63 


Beat  !  beat  !  drums  ! — blow  !  bugles  !  blow  ! 
Make  no  parley — stop  for  no  expostulation, 
Mind  not  the  timid — mind  not  the  weeper  or  prayer, 
Mind  not  the  old  man  beseeching  the  young  man, 
Let  not  the   child's   voice  be  heard,  nor  the  mother's  en- 
treaties, 
Make  even  the  trestles  to  shake  the  dead  where  they  lie 

awaiting  the  hearses, 

So  strong  you  thump  O  terrible  drums — so  loud  you  bugles 
blow. 


64  DRUM-TAPS 


CAVALRY  CROSSING  A  FORD 


A  LINE  in  long  array  where  they  wind  betwixt  green  islands, 

They  take  a  serpentine  course,  their  arms  flash  in  the  sun 
— hark  to  the  musical  clank, 

Behold  the  silvery  river,  in  it  the  splashing  horses  loiter- 
ing stop  to  drink, 

Behold  the  brown-faced  men,  each  group,  each  person,  a 
picture,  the  negligent  rest  OH  the  saddles, 

Some  emerge  on  the  opposite  bank,  others  are  just  enter- 
ing the  ford — while, 

Scarlet  and  blue  and  snowy  white, 

The  guidon  flags  flutter  gayly  in  the  wind. 


BY   THE  BIVOUAC'S  FITFUL   FLAME  65 


BY  THE  BIVOUAC'S    FITFUL  FLAME 


BY  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame, 

A  procession    winding  around  me,  solemn  and   sweet  and 

slow — but  first  I  note, 
The  tents  of  the  sleeping  army,  the  fields'  and  woods'  dim 

outline, 

The  darkness  lit  by  spots  of  kindled  fire,  the  silence, 
Like  a  phantom  far  or  near  an  occasional  figure  moving, 
The   shrubs  and  trees,  (as  I  lift   my  eyes  they  seem  to  be 

stealthily  watching  me,) 
While  wind  in  procession  thoughts,  O  tender  and  wondrous 

thoughts, 
Of  life  and  death,  of  home  and  the  past  and  loved,  and  of 

those  that  are  far  away; 

A  solemn  and  slow  procession  there  as  I  sit  on  the  ground, 
By  the  bivouac's  fitful  flame. 


66  DRUM-TAPS 


COME  UP  FROM  THE  FIELDS  FATHER 

COME  up  from  the  fields  father,  here's  a  letter  from  our 

Pete, 
And  come  to  the  front  door  mother,  here's  a  letter  from 

thy  dear  son. 

Lo,  'tis  autumn, 

Lo,  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages  with  leaves  fluttering  in 
the  moderate  wind, 

Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang  and  grapes  on  the 
trellis'd  vines, 

(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 

Smell  you  the  buckweat  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzz- 
ing ?) 

Above   all,  lo,    the   sky  so  calm,  so   transparent   after  the 

rain,  and  with  wondrous  clouds, 
Below  too,  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful,  and   the  farm 

prospers  well. 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well, 

But  now  from  the  fields  come  father,  come  at  the  daugh- 
ter's call,  • 

And  come  to  the  entry  mother,  to  the  front  door  come 
right  away. 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries,  something  ominous,  her  steps 

trembling, 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth    her  hair  nor  adjust  her  cap. 


COME  UP  FROM  THE   FIELDS  FATHER  67 


Open  the  envelope  quickly, 

O  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd, 

O  a   strange   hand    writes   for   our   dear   son,  O    stricken 

mother's  soul  ! 
All  swims  before  her  eyes,  flashes  with  black,  she  catches 

the  main  words  only, 
Sentences    broken,  gunshot   -wound  in   the  breast ',    cavalry 

skirmish,  taken  to  hospital. 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better. 

Ah  now  the  single  figure  to  me. 

Amid  all  teemingand  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  itscitiesand  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

Grieve  not  so,  dear  mother,  (the  just-grown  daughter  speaks 

through  her  sobs, 

The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dismay'd,) 
Sfc-,  dearest  mother,  the  letter  says  Pete  u'ill  soon  be  betttr. 

Alas  poor  boy,  he  will  never  be  better,  (nor  may-be  needs 

to  be  better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul,) 
While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door  he  is  dead  already, 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  mother  needs  to  be  better, 

She  with  thin  form  presently  drest  in  black, 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd,  then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping, 

often  waking, 
In  the   midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep 

longing, 
O  that    she    might    withdraw    unnoticed,  silent    from    life 

escape  and  withdraw, 
To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son. 


68  DRUM-TAPS 


THE  WOUND-DRESSER 


AN  old  man  bending  I  come  among  new  faces, 

Years  looking  backward  resuming  in  answer  to  children, 

Come  tell   us  old  man,  as   from   young  men  and   maidens 

that  love  me, 
(Arous'd  and  angry,  I'd  thought  to  beat  the  alarum,  and 

urge  relentless  war, 
But  soon  my  fingers  fail'd  me,  my  face  droop'd  and  I  re- 

'  sign'd  myself, 
To  sit  by  the  wounded  and  soothe  them,  or  silently  watch 

the  dead ;) 
Years  hence  of   these  scenes,  of   these   furious   passions, 

these  chances, 
Of  unsurpass'd  heroes,  (was  one  side  so  brave?  the  other 

was  equally  brave;) 

Now  be  witness  again,  paint  the  mightiest  armies  of  earth, 
Of  those  armies  so  rapid   so   wondrous   what  saw   you    to 

tell  us  ? 

What  stays  with  you  latest  and  deepest?  of  curious  panics, 
Of  hard-fought  engagements  or  sieges  tremendous  what 

deepest  remains  ? 

2 

O  maidens  and  young  men  I  love  and  that  love  me, 
What  you  ask  of  my  days  those  the  strangest  and  sudden 
your  talking  recalls, 


THE    WOUND-DRESSER  69 

Soldier  alert  I  arrive  after  a  long  march  cover'd  with  sweat 

and  dust. 
In  the  nick  of  time  I  come,   plunge    in    the    fight,  loudly 

shout  in  the  rush  of  successful  charge, 
Enter   the   captur'd    works — yet   lo,  like   a   swift-running 

river  they  fade, 
Pass   and   are   gone    they    fade — I  dwell  not    on  soldiers' 

perils  or  soldiers'  joys, 
(Both  I  remember  well — many  the  hardships,  few  the  joys, 

yet  I  was  content.) 

But  in  silence,  in  dreams'  projections, 

While  the  world  of  gain  and  appearance  and  mirth  goes  on, 

So  soon  what  is  over  forgotten,  and  waves  wash  the  im- 
prints off  the  sand, 

With  hinged  knees  returning  I  enter  the  doors,  (while  for 
you  up  there, 

Whoever  you  are,  follow  without  noise  and  be  of  strong 
heart.) 

Bearing  the  bandages,  water  and  sponge, 

Straight  and  swift  to  my  wounded   1  go, 

Where  they  lie  on  the  ground  after  the  battle  brought  in, 

Where  their  priceless  blood  reddens  the  grass  the  ground, 

Or  to  the  rows  of  the   hospital  tent,  or  under  the   roof'd 

hospital, 

To  the  long  rows  of  cots  up  and  down  each  side  I  return, 
To  each  and  all  one  after  another  I  draw  near,  not  one  do 

I  miss, 
An  attendant  follows  holding  a  tray,  he  carries  a  refuse 

pail, 
Soon  to  be  fill'd  with  clotted  rags  and  blood,  emptied,  and 

fill'd  again. 


70  DRUM-TAPS 

I  onward  go,  I  stop, 

With  hinged  knees  and  steady  hand  to  dress  wounds, 

I  am  firm  with  each,  the  pangs  are  sharp  yet  unavoidable, 

One  turns  to  me  his  appealing  eyes — poor  boy  !     I  never 

knew  you, 
Yet  I  think  I  could  not  refuse  this  moment  to  die  for  you, 

if  that  would  save  you. 


On,  on  I  go,  (open  doors  of  time,  open  hospital  doors!) 
The  crush'd  head  I  dress,  (poor  crazed  hand  tear  not  the 

bandage  away,) 
The  neck  of  the  cavalry-man  with  the  bullet  through  and 

through  I  examine, 
Hard  the  breathing  rattles,  quite  glazed  already  the  eye, 

yet  life  struggles  hard, 

(Come  sweet  death!  be  persuaded  O  beautiful  death! 
In  mercy  come  quickly.) 

From  the  stump  of  the  arm,  the  amputated  hand, 

I  undo  the  clotted   lint,  remove   the  slough,  wash  off  the 

matter  and  blood, 
Back  on  his  pillow  the  soldier  bends  with  curv'd  neck  and 

side-falling  head, 
His  eyes  are  closed,  his  face  is  pale,  he  dares  not  look  on 

the  bloody  stump, 
And  has  not  yet  look'd  on  it. 

I  dress  a  wound  in  the  side,  deep,  deep, 

But  a  day  or  two  more,  for  see  the  frame  all  wasted  and 

sinking. 
And  the  yellow-blue  countenance  see. 


THE    WOUND-DRESSER  71 

I  dress  the  perforated  shoulder,  the  foot  with  the  bullet- 
wound, 

Cleanse  the  one  with  a  gnawing  and  putrid  gangrene,  so 
sickening,  so  offensive, 

While  the  attendant  stands  behind  aside  me  holding  the 
tray  and  pail. 

I  am  faithful,  I  do  not  give  out, 

The  fractur'd  thigh,  the  knee,  the  wound  in  the  abdomen, 
These  and  more  I  dress  with  impassive  hand,  (yet  deep  in 
my  breast  a  fire,  a  burning  flame.) 


Thus  in  silence  in  dreams'  projections, 
Returning,   resuming,  I  tread  my  way   through    the  hos- 
pitals, 

The  hurt  and  wounded  I  pacify  with  soothing  hand, 
I  sit  by  the  restless  all  the  dark  night,  some  are  so  young, 
Some  suffer  so  much,  I  recall  the  experience  sweet  and  sad, 
(Many  a  soldier's  loving  arms  about  this  neck  have  cross'd 

and  rested, 
Many  a  soldier's  kiss  dwells  on  these  bearded  lips.) 


72  DRUM-TAPS 


ETHIOPIA   SALUTING   THE   COLORS 


WHO  are  you  dusky  woman,  so  ancient  hardly  human, 
With  your  woolly-white  and  turban'd  head,  and  bare  bony 

feet? 
Why  rising  by  the  roadside  here,  do  you  the  colors  greet? 

('Tis  while  our  army  lines  Carolina's  sand  and  pines, 
Forth  from  thy  hovel  door  thou  Ethiopia  com'st  to  me, 
As  under  doughty  Sherman  I  march  toward  the  sea.) 

Me  master  years  a  hundred  since  from  my  parents  sunder' d, 
A  little  child,  they  caught  me  as  the  savage  beast  is  caught ', 
Then  hither  me  across  the  sea  the  cruel  slaver  brought. 

No  further  does  she  say,  but  lingering  all  the  day, 

Her   high-borne    turban'd    head    she    wags,  and   rolls    her 

darkling  eye. 
And  courtesies  to  the  regiments,  the  guidons  moving  by. 

What  is  it  fateful  woman,  so  blear,  hardly  human? 

Why  wag  your  head  with  turban  bound,  yellow,  red  and 

green  ? 
Are  the  things  so  strange  and  marvelous  you  see  or  have 

seen? 


TO   A  CERTAIN   CIVILIAN  73 


TO  A  CERTAIN  CIVILIAN 


DID  you  ask  dulcet  rhymes  from  me  ? 

Did    you    seek    the    civilian's    peaceful    and     languishing 

rhymes  ? 

Did  you  find  what  I  sang  erewhile  so  hard  to  follow  ? 
Why   I   was  not   singing  erewhile  for  you   to  follow,  to 

understand — nor  am  I  now; 

(I  have  been  born  of  the  same  as  the  war  was  born, 
The  drum-corps'   rattle  is  ever  to  me  sweet  music,  I  love 

well  the  martial  dirge, 
With  slow  wail  and  convulsive  throb  leading  the  officer's 

funeral;) 
What  to  such  as  you  anyhow  such  a  poet  as  I  ?  therefore 

leave  my  works, 
And  go  lull  yourself  with  what  you  can  understand,  and 

with  piano-tunes, 
For  I  lull  nobody,  and  you  will  never  understand  me. 


74  DRUM-TAPS 


SPIRIT  WHOSE  WORK   IS  DONE 
(Washington  City,  1865) 

SPIRIT  whose  work  is  done — spirit  of  dreadful  hours! 

Ere  departing  fade  from  my  eyes  your  forests  of  bayonets; 

Spirit  of  gloomiest  fears  and  doubts,  (yet  onward  ever  un- 
faltering pressing,) 

Spirit  of  many  a  solemn  day  and  many  a  savage  scene — 
electric  spirit. 

That  with  muttering  voice  through  the  war  now  closed, 
like  a  tireless  phantom  flitted, 

Rousing  the  land  with  breath  of  flame,  while  you  beat  and 
beat  the  drum. 

Now  as  the  sound  of  the  drum,  hollow  and  harsh  to  the 
last,  reverberates  round  me, 

As  your  ranks,  your  immortal  ranks,  return,  return  from 
the  battles, 

As  the  muskets  of  the  young  men  yet  lean  over  their 
shoulders. 

As  I  look  on  the  bayonets  bristling  over  their  shoulders, 

As  those  slanted  bayonets,  whole  forests  of  them  appearing 
in  the  distance,  approach  and  pass  on,  returning  home- 
ward, 

Moving  with  steady  motion,  swaying  to  and  fro  to  the  right 
and  left, 

Evenly  lightly  rising  and  falling  while  the  steps  keep  time; 

Spirit  of  hours  I  knew,  all  hectic  red  one  day,  but  pale  as 
death  next  day, 


SPIRIT  WHOSE  WORK    IS   DONE  75 

Touch  my  mouth  ere  you  depart,  press  my  lips  close, 
Leave  me  your  pulses  of  rage — bequeath  them  to  me — fill 

me  with  currents  convulsive, 
Let  them  scorch  and  blister  out  of  my  chants  when  you  are 

gone, 
Let  them  identify  you  to  the  future  in  these  songs. 


MEMORIES  OF  PRESIDENT  LINCOLN 


WHEN   LILACS   LAST  79 


( 


WHEN    LILACS    LAST    IN    THE    DOORYARD 
BLOOM' D 


WHEN  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd. 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the 

night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 


O  powerful  western  fallen.  star! 

O  shades  of  night  —  O  moody,  tearful  night! 

O  great  star  disappear'd—  O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the 

star! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless  —  O  helpless  soul  of 

me! 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 


In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the  white- 

wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves 

of  rich  green, 


So  MEMORIES   OF  LINCOLN 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  per 
fume  strong  I  love, 

With  every  leaf  a  miracle — and  from  this  bush  in  the  door- 
yard, 

With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of 
rich  green, 

A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 


In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements. 

Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life,  (for  well  dear  brother  I  know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die.) 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the  vio- 
lets peep'd  from  the  ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris, 

Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing 
the  endless  grass, 

Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its 
shroud  in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  or- 
chards, 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 

Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


WHEN   LILACS   LAST  8 1 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets 

Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the 

land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities  draped 

in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd 

women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of 

the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces 

and  the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  sombre 

faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices 

rising  strong  and  solemn, 
With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around 

the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and    the  shuddering  organs — where 

amid  these  you  journey. 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 


(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song  for 
you  O  sane  and  sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 


82  MEMORIES   OF  LINCOLN 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 
Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 
With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 
For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death.) 


O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 

Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I 

walk'd, 

As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had   something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me 

night  after  night, 
As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side, 

(while  the  other  stars  all  look'd  on,) 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night,  (for  something 

I  know  not  what  kept  me  from  sleep,) 
As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west 

how  full  you  were  of  woe, 
As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze   in  the  cool 

transparent  night, 

As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  nether- 
ward  black  of  the  night, 
As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as   where  you 

sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 


Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

O  singer  bashful  and  tender » I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your 
call, 


WHEN    LILACS    LAST  83 

I  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the   lustrous  star  has  detain'd 

me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 

10 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved  ? 
And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that 

has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love  ? 

Sea- winds  blow,  from  east  and  west 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western 

sea,  till  there  on  the  prairies  meeting. 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

ii 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love  ? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke 

lucid  and  bright, 
With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent, 

sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With  the  fresh    sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale 

green  leaves  of  the  trees  prolific, 
In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river, 

with  a  wind-dapple  here  and  there, 
With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  and  many  a  line  against 

the  sky,  and  shadows. 


84  MEMORIES   OF   LINCOLN 

And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of 
chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the  work- 
men homeward  returning. 

12 

Lo,  body  and  soul — this  land, 

My   own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling   and 

hurrying  tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the 

light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd  with  grass  and 

corn. 

Lo.  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 

The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 

The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 

The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 

The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

13 

Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from 

the  bushes, 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul — O  wondrous  singer! 


WHEN    LILACS   LAST  85 


You  only  I  hear — yet  the  star  holds  me,  (but  will  soon  de- 
part,) 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

14 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring, 

and  the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 
In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes 

and  forests, 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,  (after  the  perturb'd  winds 

and  the  storms,) 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing, 

and  the  voices  of  children  and  women, 
The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they 

sail'd, 
And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields 

all  busy  with  labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each 

with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily  usages, 
And   the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the 

cities  pent — lo,  then  and  there, 
Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me 

with  the  rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long  black  trail, 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of 

death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of 

me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 
And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the 

hands  of  companions, 


86  MEMORIES  OF  LINCOLN 


I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in 

the  dimness, 
To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three, 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still, 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night, 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  -world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving. 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love — but  praise!  praise!  praise! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
J  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  un- 
falteringly. 


WHEN    LILACS   LAST  87 


Approach  strong  deliver  ess, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing  the 

dead. 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  Hiss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  theet  adornments  and  feast- 
ings  for  thee, 

And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky 
are  fitting. 

And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star. 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  I 

know, 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veird  death. 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song. 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and 

the  prairies  wide. 
Over  the  dense-pack' d  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and 

ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim. 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume. 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 


88  MEMORIES   OF  LINCOLN 


While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd  with 

missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and  torn 

and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and  all  in 

silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the 

war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 
The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd, 
And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 


if, 


Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song 

of  my  soul, 

Victorious    song,  death's   outlet   song,  yet  varying   ever- 
altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling, 
flooding  the  night, 


WHEN    LILACS   LAST  89 


Sadly  sinking  and   fainting,  as  warning  and   warning,  and 

yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  heaven. 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there   in  the  door-yard,  blooming,  returning 

with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  com- 
muning with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 
With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  countenance 

full  of  woe, 
"With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  nearing  the  call  of  the 

bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever 

to  keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands — and 

this  for  his  dear  sake, 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 


90  MEMORIES   OF  LINCOLN 


O  CAPTAIN  !  MY  CAPTAIN  ! 

O  CAPTAIN  !  my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 

The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought  is 

won, 

The  port  is  near,  the  bells   I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel, the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But  O  heart  !  heart  !  heart  ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !  my  Captain  !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 

Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the  bugle  trills, 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding, 

For   you   they  call,   the   swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning; 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father  ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head  ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won; 
Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells  ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


HUSH'D   BE  THE  CAMPS  TODAY  9! 


HUSH'D  BE  THE  CAMPS  TO-DAY 
( May  4,  1865) 

HUSH'D  be  the  camps  to-day, 

And  soldiers  let  us  drape  our  war-worn  weapons, 
And  each  with  musing  soul  retire  to  celebrate, 
Our  dear  commander's  death. 

No  more  for  him  life's  stormy  conflicts, 

Nor  victory,  nor  defeat — no  more  time's  dark  events, 

Charging  like  ceaseless  clouds  across  the  sky. 

But  sing  poet  in  our  name, 

Sing  of  the  love  we  bore  him — because   you,  dweller  in 
camps,  know  it  truly. 

As  they  invault  the  coffin  there, 

Sing — as  they  close  the  doors  of  earth  upon  him— one  verse, 

For  the  heavy  hearts  of  soldiers. 


OLD  AGE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALITY 


OF  THAT    BLITHE  THROAT   OF  THINE  95 


OF  THAT  BLITHE  THROAT  OF  THINE* 


OF  that  blithe  throat  of  thine  from  arctic  bleak  and  blank, 
I'll   mind   the  lesson,    solitary  bird — let  me    too  welcome 

chilling  drifts, 
E'en  the  profoundest  chill,  as  now — a  torpid  pulse,  a  brain 

unnerv'd, 
Old  age  land-lock'd  within  its  winter  bay — (cold,  cold,  O 

cold!) 

These  snowy  hairs,  my  feeble  arm,  my  frozen  feet, 
For  them  thy  faith,  thy  rule  I  take,  and  grave  it  to  the  last; 
Not  summer's  zones  alone — not  chants  of  youth,  or  south's 

warm  tides  alone, 
But  held  by  sluggish  floes,  pack'd  in  the  northern  ice,  the 

cumulus  of  years, 
These  with  gay  heart  I  also  sing. 


*More  than  eighty-three  degrees  north — about  a  good  day's  steaming  dis- 
tance to  the  Pole  by  one  of  our  fast  oceaners  in  clear  water — Greely  the  ex- 
plorer heard  the  song  of  a  single  snow-bird  merrily  sounding  over  the  deso- 
lation. 


Q6  OLD   AGE — IMMORTALITY 


THANKS  IN  OLD  AGE 


THANKS  in  old  age — thanks  ere  I  go, 

For  health,  the  midday  sun,  the  impalpable  air — for  life, 

mere  life, 
For  precious  ever-lingering  memories,  (of  you  my  mother 

dear — you,  father — you,  brothers,  sisters,  friends,) 
For  all  my  days — not  those  of  peace  alone — the  days  of  war 

the  same, 

For  gentle  words,  caresses,  gifts  from  foreign  lands, 
For  shelter,  wine  and  meat — for  sweet  appreciation, 
(You  distant,  dim  unknown — or  young  or  old — countless, 

unspecified,  readers  belov'd, 

We  never  met,  and  ne'er  shall  meet — and  yet  our  souls  em- 
brace, long,  close  and  long;) 
For  beings,  groups,  love,  deeds,  words,  books — for  colors, 

forms, 
For  all  the  brave  strongmen — devoted,  hardy  men — who've 

forward  sprung  in  freedom's  help,  all  years,  all  lands, 
For  braver,  stronger,  more  devoted  men — (a  special  laurel 

ere  I  go,  to  life's  war's  chosen  ones, 
The  cannoneers  of  song  and  thought — the  great  artillerists 

— the  foremost  leaders,  captains  of  the  soul:) 
As  soldier  from  an  ended  war  return' d — As  traveler  out  of 

myriads,  to  the  long  procession  retrospective, 
Thanks — joyful  thanks! — a  soldier's,  traveler's  thanks. 


ON,    ON   THE  SAME,    YE  JOCUND   TWAIN  !  97 


ON,  ON  THE  SAME,  YE  JOCUND  TWAIN! 

ON,  on  the  same,  ye  jocund  twain! 

My   life  and   recitative,  containing  birth,  youth,  mid-age 

years, 
Fitful  as  motley-tongues  of  flame,  inseparably  twined  and 

merged  in  one — combining  all, 
My  single  soul — aims,  confirmations,  failures,  joys — Nor 

single  soul  alone, 

I  chant  my  nation's  crucial  stage,  (America's,  haply   hu- 
manity's)— the  trial  great,  the  victory  great, 
A  strange  eclairdssement  of  all  the  masses  past,  the  eastern 

world,  the  ancient,  medieval, 

Here,  here  from  wanderings,  strayings,  lessons,  wars,  de- 
feats— here  at  the  west  a  voice  triumphant — justifying 

all. 
A  gladsome  pealing  cry — a  song  for  once  of  utmost  pride 

and  satisfaction; 
I  chant  from  it  the  common  bulk,  the  general  average  horde, 

(the  best  no  sooner  than  the  worst) — And  now  I  chant 

old  age, 
(My  verses,   written    first    for  forenoon  life,  and  for  the 

summer's,  autumn's  spread, 
I  pass  to  snow-white   hairs  the  same,  and  give  to  pulses 

winter-cool'd  the  same;) 
As  here  in  careless  trill,  I  and  my  recitatives,  with  faith 

and  love, 

Wafting  to  other  work,  to  unknown  songs,  conditions, 
On,  on,  ye  jocund  twain!  continue  on  the  same! 


98  OLD    AGE— IMMORTALITY 


OLD  AGE'S  LAMBENT  PEAKS 


THE  touch  of  flame — the  illuminating  fire — the  loftiest  look 
at  last, 

O'er  city,  passion,  sea — o'er  prairie,  mountain,  wood — the 
earth  itself; 

The  airy,  different,  changing  hues  of  all,  in  falling  twi- 
light, 

Objects  and  groups,  bearings,  faces,  reminiscences; 

The  calmer  sight — the  golden  setting,  clear  and  broad: 

So  much  i'  the  atmosphere,  the  points  of  view,  the  situ- 
ations whence  we  scan, 

Bro't  out  by  them  alone — so  much  (perhaps  the  best)  un- 
reck'd  before; 

The  lights  indeed  from  them — old  age's  lambent  peaks. 


TO  GET   THE   FINAL   LILT   OF  SONGS  99 


TO  GET  THE  FINAL  LILT  OF  SONGS 


To  get  the  final  lilt  of  songs, 

To  penetrate  the  inmost  lore  of  poets — to  know  the  mighty 
ones, 

Job,  Homer,  Eschylus,  Dante,  Shakspere,  Tennyson,  Em- 
erson; 

To  diagnose  the  shifting-delicate  tints  of  love  and  pride  and 
doubt — to  truly  understand, 

To  encompass  these,  the  last  keen  faculty  and  entrance- 
price, 

Old  age,  and  what  it  brings  from  all  its  past  experiences. 


100  OLD   AGE — IMMORTALITY 


HALCYON  DAYS 


NOT  from  successful  love  alone, 

Not  wealth,  nor  honor'd  middle  age,  nor  victories  of  pol- 
itics or  war; 

But  as  life  wanes,  and  all  the  turbulent  passions  calm, 

As  gorgeous,  vapory,  silent  hues  cover  the  evening  sky, 

As  softness,  fulness,  rest,  suffuse  the  frame,  like  fresher, 
balmier  air, 

As  the  days  take  on  a  mellower  light,  and  the  apple  at  last 
hangs  really  finish'd  and  indolent-ripe  on  the  tree, 

Then  for  the  teeming  quietest,  happiest  days  of  all  ! 

The  brooding  and  blissful  halcyon  days  ! 


OLD   AGE'S   SHIP  &  CRAFTY   DEATH'S  IOI 


OLD  AGE'S  SHIP  &  CRAFTY  DEATH'S 

FROM  east  and  west  across  the  horizon's  edge, 

Two  mighty  masterful  vessels  sailers  steal  upon  us: 

But  we'll  make  race  a-time  upon  the  seas — a  battle-contest 

yet  !  bear  lively  there  ! 

(Our  joys  of  strife  and  derring-do  to  the  last  !) 
Put  on  the  old  ship  all  her  power  to-day  ! 
Crowd  top-sail,  top-gallant  and  royal  studding-sails, 
Out  challenge  and  defiance — flags  and  flaunting  pennants 

added, 
As  we  take  to  the  open — take  to  the  deepest,  freest  waters. 


102  OLD   AGE — IMMORTALITY 


AFTER  THE  SUPPER-AND  TALK 


AFTER  the  supper  and  talk — after  the  day  is  done, 
As  a  friend  from  friends  his  final  withdrawal  prolonging, 
Good-bye  and  Good-bye  with  emotional  lips  repeating, 
(So   hard  for  his    hand  to  release  those  hands — no  more 

will  they  meet, 
No  more  for  communion  of  sorrow  and  joy,  of  old  and 

young, 

A  far-stretching  journey  awaits  him,  to  return  no  more,) 
Shunning,  postponing  severance — seeking   to  ward  off  the 

last  word  ever  so  little, 
E'en  at  the  exit-door  turning — charges  superfluous  calling 

back — e'en  as  he  descends  the  steps, 
Something  to  eke  out   a    minute    additional — shadows  of 

nightfall  deepening, 
Farewells,    messages   lessening — dimmer    the   forthgoer's 

visage  and  form, 
Soon  to  be  lost  for  aye  in  the  darkness — loth,  O  so  loth  to 

depart  ! 
Garrulous  to  the  very  last. 


WHISPERS   OF   HEAVENLY    DEATH  103 


WHISPERS  Of  HEAVENLY  DEATH 


WHISPERS  of  heavenly  death  murmur'd  I  hear, 

Labial  gossip  of  night,  sibilant  chorals, 

Footsteps  gently  ascending,  mystical  breezes  wafted  soft 

and  low, 
Ripples  of  unseen  rivers,  tides  of  a  current  flowing,  forever 

flowing, 
(Or  is  it  the  plashing  of  tears  ?  the  measureless  waters  of 

human  tears  ?) 

I  see,  just  see  skyward,  great  cloud-masses, 
Mournfully  slowly  they  roll,  silently  swelling  and  mixing, 
With  at  times  a  half-dimm'd  sadden'd  far-off  star, 
Appearing  and  disappearing. 

(Some  parturition  rather,  some  solemn  immortal  birth; 
On  the  frontiers  to  eyes  impenetrable, 
Some  soul  is  passing  over.) 


104  OLD   AGE— IMMORTALITY 


JOY,  SHIPMATE,  JOY  ! 


JOY,  shipmate,  joy  ! 
(Pleas'd  to  my  soul  at  death  I  cry,) 
Our  life  is  closed,  our  life  begins, 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last,  she  leaps  ! 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore, 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy. 


LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


Come,  said  my  Soul, 

Suck  verses  for  my  Body  let  us  write,  (for  we  are  one,) 

That  should  I  after  death  invisibly  return, 

Or,  long,  long  hence,  in  other  spheres, 

There  to  some  group  of  mates  the  chants  resuming, 

{Tallying  Eartti s  soil,  trees,  winds,  tumultuous  waves,) 

Ever  with  pleas 'd  smile  I  may  keep  on, 

Ever  and  ever  vet  the  verses  owning — as,  first,  I  here  and  now, 

Signing  for  Sotd  and  Body,  set  to  them  my  name, 


INSCRIPTIONS  107 


INSCRIPTIONS 


ONE'S-SELF  i  SING 

ONE'S-SELF  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person, 

Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Masse. 

Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing, 

Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the 

Muse,  I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far, 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing. 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest  action  form'd  under  the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing. 

TO   FOREIGN    LANDS 

I  HEARD  that  you  ask'd  for  something  to  prove  this  puzzle 

the  New  World, 

And  to  define  America,  her  athletic  Democracy, 
Therefore  I  send  you  my  poems  that  you  behold  in  them 

what  you  wanted. 

I   HEAR  AMERICA  SINGING 

I  HEAR  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear, 

Those  of  mechanics,  each  one  singing  his  as  it  should  be 

blithe  and  strong, 
The  carpenter  singing  his  as    he    measures    his  plank   or 

beam, 
The  mason  singing  as  he  makes  ready  for  work,  or  leaves 

off  work, 


I08  LEAVES   OF   GRASS 


The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him  in  his  boat,  the 

deck-hand  singing  on  the  steamboat  deck, 
The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his  bench,  the  hatter 

singing  as  he  stands, 
The  wood-cutter's  song,  the  ploughboy's  on  his  way  in  the 

morning,  or  at  noon  intermission  or  at  sundown, 
The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother,  or  of  the  young  wife 

at  work,  or  of  the  girl  sewing  or  washing, 
Each  singing  what  belongs  to  him  or  her  and  to  none  else, 
The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day — at  night  the  party  of 

young  fellows,  robust,  friendly, 
Singing  with  open  mouths  their  strong  melodious  songs. 

SHUT   NOT   YOUR   DOORS 

SHUT  not  your  doors  to  me  proud  libraries, 

For  that  which  was  lacking  on  all  your  well-fill'd  shelves, 

yet  needed  most,  I  bring, 

Forth  from  the  war  emerging,  a  book  I  have  made, 
The  words  of  my  book  nothing,  the  drift  of  it  every  thing, 
A  book  separate,  not  link'd  with  the   rest  nor  felt  by  the 

intellect, 
But  you  ye  untold  latencies  will  thrill  to  every  page. 


STARTING   FROM    PAUMANOK  109 


STARTING  FROM  PAUMANOK 


STARTING  from  fish-shape  Paumanok  where  I  was  born, 
Well-begotten,  and  rais'd  by  a  perfect  mother. 
After  roaming  many  lands,  lover  of  populous  pavements, 
Dweller  in  Mannahatta  my  city,  or  on  southern  savannas, 
Or  a  soldier  camp'd  or  carrying  my  knapsack  and  gun,  or  a 

miner  in  California, 
Or  rude  in  my  home  in  Dakota's  woods,  my  diet  meat,  my 

drink  from  the  spring, 

Or  withdrawn  to  muse  and  meditate  in  some  deep  recess, 
Far  from  the  clank  of  crowds   intervals  passing  rapt  and 

happy, 
Aware  of  the  fresh  free  giver  the  flowing  Missouri,  aware 

of  mighty  Niagara, 
Aware  of  the  buffalo  herds  grazing  the  plains,  the  hirsute 

and  strong-breasted  bull, 
Of  earth,  rocks,   Fifth-month  flowers  experienced,  stars. 

rain,  snow,  my  amaze, 
Having  studied  the  mocking-bird's  tones  and  the  flight  of 

the  mountain-hawk, 
And  heard  at  dusk  the  unrivall'd  one,  the  hermit  thrush 

from  the  swamp-cedars, 
Solitary,  singing  in  the  West,  I  strike  up  for  a  New  World. 


HO  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


SONG  OF  MYSELF 


I  CELEBRATE  myself,  and  sing  myself, 

And  what  I  assume  you  shall  assume, 

For  every  atom  belonging  to  me  as  good  belongs  to  you. 

I  loafe  and  invite  my  soul, 

I  lean  and  loafe  at  my  ease  observing  a  spear  of  summer 
grass. 

My  tongue,  every  atom  of  my  blood,  form'd  from  this  soil, 

this  air, 
Born  here  of  parents  born  here  from  parents  the  same,  and 

their  parents  the  same, 

I.  now  thirty-seven  years  old  in  perfect  health  begin, 
Hoping  to  cease  not  till  death. 

Creeds  and  schools  in  abeyance, 

Retiring  back  a  while  sufficed  at  what  they  are,  but  never 

forgotten, 

I  harbor  for  good  or  bad,  I  permit  to  speak  at  every  hazard, 
Nature  without  check  with  original  energy. 


Have  you  reckon'd  a  thousand  acres  much  ?  have  you  reck- 

on'd  the  earth  much  ? 

Have  you  practis'd  so  long  to  learn  to  read  ? 
Have  you  felt  so  proud  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  poems  ? 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  III 

Stop  this  day  and  night  with  me  and  you  shall  possess  the 

origin  of  all  poems, 
You  shall  possess  the  good  of  the  earth  and  sun,  (there  are 

millions  of  suns  left,) 
You  shall  no  longer  take  things  at  second  or  third  hand,  nor 

look  through  the  eyes  of   the  dead,  nor  feed  on  the 

spectres  in  books, 
You  shall  not  look  through  my  eyes  either,  nor  take  things 

from  me, 
You  shall  listen  to  all  sides  and  filter  them  from  your  self. 


A  child  said  What  is  the  grass?  fetching  it  to  me  with  full 

hands; 
How  could  I  answer  the  child  ?    I  do  not  know  what  it  is 

any  more  than  he. 

I  guess  it  must  be  the  flag  of  my  disposition,  out  of  hope- 
ful green  stuff  woven. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  the  handkerchief  of  the  Lord, 
A  scented  gift  and  remembrancer  designedly  dropt, 
Bearing  the  owner's  name  someway  in  the  corners,  that 
we  may  see  and  remark,  and  say  Whose? 

Or  I  guess  the  grass  is  itself  a  child,  the  produced  babe  of 
the  vegetation. 

Or  I  guess  it  is  a  uniform  hieroglyphic, 
And  it  means,  Sprouting  alike  in  broad  zones  and  narrow 
zones, 


112  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


Growing  among  black  folks  as  among  white, 
Kanuck,  Tuckahoe,  Congressman,  Cuff,  I  give  them  the 
same,  I  receive  them  the  same. 

And  now  it  seems  to  me  the  beautiful  uncut  hair  of  graves. 

Tenderly  will  I  use  you  curling  grass, 
It  may  be  you  transpire  from  the  breasts  of  young  men, 
It  may  be  if  I  had  known  them  I  would  have  loved  them, 
It  may  be  you  are  from  old  people,  or  from  offspring  taken 

soon  out  of  their  mothers'  laps, 
And  here  you  are  the  mothers'  laps. 

This  grass  is  very  dark  to  be  from  the  white  heads  of  old 

mothers, 

Darker  than  the  colorless  beards  of  old  men, 
Dark  to  come  from  under  the  faint  red  roofs  of  mouths. 

0  I  perceive  after  all  so  many  uttering  tongues, 

And  I  perceive  they  do  not  come  from  the  roofs  of  mouths 
for  nothing. 

1  wish  I  could  translate  the  hints  about  the  dead  young  men 

and  women, 

And  the  hints  about  old  men  and  mothers,  and  the  offspring 
taken  soon  out  of  their  laps. 

What  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  young  and  old  men  ? 
And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren ? 

They  are  alive  and  well  somewhere, 

The  smallest  sprout  shows  there  is  really  no  death, 

And  if  ever  there  was  it  led  forward  life,  and  does  not  wait 

at  the  end  to  arrest  it, 
And  ceas'd  the  moment  life  appear'd. 


SONG   OF  MYSELF  113 

All  goes  onward  and  outward,  nothing  collapses, 
And  to  die  is  different  from  what  any  one  supposed,  and 
luckier. 


10 

Alone  far  in  the  wilds  and  mountains  I  hunt, 
Wandering  amazed  at  my  own  lightness  and  glee, 
In  the  late  afternoon  choosing  a  safe  spot  to  pass  the  night, 
Kindling  a  fire  and  broiling  the  fresh-kill'd  game, 
Falling  asleep  on  the  gather'd  leaves  with  my  dog  and  gun 
by  my  side. 

The  Yankee  clipper  is  under  her  sky-sails,  she  cuts  the 
sparkle  and  scud, 

My  eyes  settle  the  land,  I  bend  at  her  prow  or  shout  joy- 
ously from  the  deck. 

The  boatmen  and  clam-diggers  arose  early  and  stopt  for  me, 
I  tuck'd  my  trowser-ends  in  my  boots  and  went  and  had  a 

good  time; 

You  should  have  been  with  us  that  day  round  the  chowder- 
kettle. 

I  saw  the  marriage  of  the  trapper  in  the  open  air  in  the  far 

west,  the  bride  was  a  red  girl, 
Her  father  and  his  friends  sat  near  cross-legged  and  dumbly 

smoking,  they  had  moccasins    to  their  feet  and  large 

thick  blankets  hanging  from  their  shoulders, 
On  a  bank  lounged  the  trapper,  he  was  drest  mostly  in 

skins,  his  luxuriant  beard  and  curls  protected  his  neck, 

he  held  his  bride  by  the  hand, 
She  had  long  eyelashes,  her  head   was  bare,   her  coarse 

straight  locks  descended  upon    her  voluptuous  limbs 

and  reach'd  to  her  feet. 


114  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

The  runaway  slave  came  to  my  house  and  stopt  outside, 
I  heard  his  motions  crackling  the  twigs  of  the  woodpile, 
Through  the  swung  half-door  of  the  kitchen  I  saw  him 

limpsy  and  weak, 
And  went  where  he  sat  on  a  log  and  led  him  in  and  assured 

him, 
And  brought  water  and  fill'd  a  tub  for  his  sweated  body 

and  bruis'd  feet, 
And  gave  him  a  room  that  enter'd  from  my  own,  and  gave 

him  some  coarse  clean  clothes, 
And  remember  perfectly  well  his  revolving  eyes  and  his 

awkwardness, 
And  remember  putting  plasters  on  the  galls  of  his  neck  and 

ankles; 
He  staid  with  me  a  week  before  he  was  recuperated  and 

pass'd  north, 
I  had  him  sit  next  me  at  table,  my  fire-lock  lean'd  in  the 

corner. 


The  negro  holds  firmly  the  reins  of  his  four  horses,  the 

block  swags  underneath  on  its  tied-over  chain, 
The  negro  that  drives  the  long  dray  of  the   stone-yard, 

steady   and   tall  he   stands   pois'd   on  one   leg  on  the 

string-piece, 
His   blue   shirt   exposes   his  ample  neck  and   breast   and 

loosens  over  his  hip-band, 
His  glance  is  calm  and  commanding,  he  tosses  the  slouch 

of  his  hat  away  from  his  forehead, 
The  sun  falls  on  his  crispy  hair  and  mustache,  falls  on  the 

black  of  his  polish'd  and  perfect  limbs. 


SONG   OF  MYSELF  115 

I  behold  the  picturesque  giant  and  love  him,  and  I  do  not 

stop  there, 
I  go  with  the  team  also. 

In  me  the  caresser  of  life  wherever  moving,  backward  as 

well  as  forward  sluing, 
To  niches  aside  and  junior  bending,  not  a  person  or  object 

missing, 
Absorbing  all  to  myself  and  for  this  song. 

Oxen  that  rattle  the  yoke  and  chain  or  halt  in  the  leafy 
shade,  what  is  that  you  express  in  your  eyes  ? 

It  seems  to  me  more  than  all  the  print  I  have  read  in  my 
life. 

My  tread  scares  the  wood-drake  and  wood-duck  on  my  dis- 
tant and  day-long  ramble, 
They  rise  together,  they  slowly  circle  around. 

I  believe  in  those  wing'd  purposes, 

And  acknowledge  red,  yellow,  white,  playing  within  me, 

And  consider  green  and  violet  and  the  tufted  crown  inten- 
tional, 

And  do  not  call  the  tortoise  unworthy  because  she  is  not 
something  else, 

And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut,  yet 
trills  pretty  well  to  me, 

And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out  of  me. 


16 

I  am  of  old  and  young,  of  the  foolish  as  much  as  the  wise, 
Regardless  of  others,  ever  regardful  of  others, 
Maternal  as  well  as  paternal,  a  child  as  well  as  a  man, 


Il6  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


Stuff  d  with  the  stuff  that  is  coarse  and  stuff'd  with  the 

stuff  that  is  fine, 
One  of  the  Nation  of  many  nations,  the  smallest  the  same 

and  the  largest  the  same, 
A  Southerner  soon  as  a  Northerner,  a  planter  nonchalant 

and  hospitable  down  by  the  Oconee  I  live, 
A  Yankee  bound  my  own  way  ready  for  trade,  my  joints 

the  limberest  joints  on  earth  and  the  sternest  joints 

on  earth, 

A  Kentuckian  walking  the  vale  of  the  Elkhorn  in  my  deer- 
skin leggings,  a  Louisianian  or  Georgian, 
A  boatman  over  lakes  or  bays  or  along  coasts,  a  Hoosier, 

Badger,  Buckeye; 
At  home  on  Kanadian  snow-shoes  or  up  in  the  bush,  or 

with  fishermen  off  Newfoundland, 
At  home  in  the  fleet  of  ice-boats,  sailing  with  the  rest  and 

tacking, 
At  home  on  the  hills  of  Vermont  or  in  the  woods  of  Maine, 

or  the  Texan  ranch, 

Comrade  of  Californians,  comrade  of  free  North-Western- 
ers, (loving  their  big  proportions,) 
Comrade   of   raftsmen   and    coalmen,  comrade  of  all  who 

shake  hands  and  welcome  to  drink  and  meat, 
A  learner  with  the  simplest,  a  teacher  of  the  thoughtfull- 

est, 

A  novice  beginning  yet  experient  of  myriads  of  seasons, 
Of  every  hue  and  caste  am  I,  of  every  rank  and  religion, 
A  farmer,  mechanic,  artist,  gentleman,  sailor,  quaker, 
Prisoner,  fancy-man,  rowdy,  lawyer,  physician,  priest. 

I  resist  any  thing  better  than  my  own  diversity, 
Breathe  the  air  but  leave  plenty  after  me, 
And  am  not  stuck  up,  and  am  in  my  place. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  117 

(The  moth  and  the  fish-eggs  are  in  their  place, 

The  bright  suns  I  see  and  the  dark  suns  I  cannot  see  are  in 

their  place, 
The  palpable  is  in  its  place  and    the  impalpable  is  in  its 

place.) 

I? 

These  are  really  the  thoughts  of  all  men  in  all  ages   and 

lands,  they  are  not  original  with  me, 
If  they  are  not  yours  as  much  as  mine  they  are  nothing,  or 

next  to  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  the  riddle  and  the  untying  of  the  riddle  they 

are  nothing, 
If  they  are  not  just  as  close  as   thejfare  distant  they  are 

nothing. 

This  is  the  grass  that  grows  wherever  the  land  is  and  the 

water  is, 
This  the  common  air  that  bathes  the  globe. 


21 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  Body  and  I  am  the  poet  of  the  Soul, 
The  pleasures  of  heaven  are  with  me  and  the  pains  of  hell 

are  with  me, 

The  first  I  graft  and  increase  upon  myself,  the  latter  I  trans- 
late into  a  new  tongue. 

I  am  the  poet  of  the  woman  the  same  as  the  man, 
And  I  say  it  is  as  great  to  be  a  woman  as  to  be  a  man, 
And  I  say  there  is  nothing  greater  than  the  mother  of  men. 

I  chant  the  chant  of  dilation  or  pride, 

We  have  had  ducking  and  deprecating  about  enough, 

I  show  that  size  is  only  development. 


Il8  LEAVES   OF   GRASS 


Have  you  outstrip!  the  rest?  are  you  the  President  ? 
It  is  a  trifle,  they  will  more  than  arrive  there  every  one, 
and  still  pass  on. 

I  am  he  that  walks  with  the  tender  and  growing  night 
I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea  half-held  by  the  night. 

Press  close  bare-bosom'd  night — press  close  magnetic  nour- 
ishing night  ! 

Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  large  few  stars  ! 
Still  nodding  night — mad  naked  summer  night. 

Smile  O  voluptuous  sool-breath'd  earth  ! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ! 
Earth  of  departed  sunset — earth  of  the  mountains  misty- 

topt  ! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just  tinged  with 

blue  ! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river  ! 
Earth  of  the  limpid  gray  of  clouds  brighter  and  clearer  for 

my  sake  ! 

Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth — rich  apple-blossom'd  earth  ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes. 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love — therefore  I  to  you  give 

love  ! 
O  unspeakable  passionate  love. 


23 

Endless  unfolding  of  words  of  ages  ! 

And  mine  a  word  of  the  modern,  the  word  En-Masse. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  1 19 

A.  word  of  the  faith  that  never  balks, 

Here  or  henceforward  it  is  all  the  same  to  me,  I  accept  Time 
absolutely. 

It  alone  is  without  flaw,  it  alone  rounds  and  completes  all, 
That  mystic  baffling  wonder  alone  completes  all. 

I  accept  Reality  and  dare  not  question  it, 
Materialism  first  and  last  imbuing. 

Hurrah  for  positive  science  !  long  live  exact  demonstration  ! 
Fetch  stonecrop  mixt  with  cedar  and  branches  of  lilac. 
This  is  the  lexicographer,  this  the  chemist,  this  made  a 

grammar  of  the  old  cartouches, 
These  mariners  put  the  ship  through  dangerous  unknown 

seas, 
This  is  the  geologist,  this  works  with  the  scalpel,  and  this 

is  a  mathematician. 

Gentlemen,  to  you  the  first  honors  always  ! 

Your  facts  are  useful,  and  yet  they  are  not  my  dwelling, 

I  but  enter  by  them  to  an  area  of  my  dwelling. 

Less  the  reminders  of  properties  told  my  words, 
And  more  the  reminders  they  of  life  untold,  and  of  freedom 
and  extrication. 


32 

I  think  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are  so  placid 

and  self-contain'd, 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 

They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition, 

They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their  sins, 


120  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to  God, 

Not  one  is  dissatisfied,  not  one  is  demented  with  the  mania 
of  owning  things, 

Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived  thou- 
sands of  years  ago, 

Not  one  is  respectable  or  unhappy  over  the  whole  earth. 

So  they  show  their  relations  to  me  and  I  accept  them, 
They  bring  me  tokens  of  myself,  they  evince  them  plainly 
in  their  possession. 

I  wonder  where  they  get  those  tokens, 

Did  I  pass  thatwayhuge  times agoand  negligentlydrop  them? 
Myself  moving  forward  then  and  now  and  forever, 
Gathering  and  showing  more  always  and  with  velocity, 
Infinite  and  omnigenous,  and  the  like  of  these  among  them, 
Not  too  exclusive  toward  the  reachers  of  my  remembrancers, 
Picking  out  here  one  that  I  love,  and  now  go  with  him  on 
brotherly  terms. 

A  gigantic  beauty  of  a  stallion,  fresh  and  responsive  to  my 

caresses, 

Head  high  in  the  forehead,  wide  between  the  ears, 
Limbs  glossy  and  supple,  tail  dusting  the  ground, 
Eyes  full  of  sparkling  wickedness,  ears  finely  cut,  flexibly 

moving. 

His  nostrils  dilate  as  my  heels  embrace  him, 
His  well-built  limbs  tremble  with  pleasure  as  we  race  around 
and  return. 

I  but  use  you  a  minute,  then  I  resign  you,  stallion, 

Why  do  I  need  your  paces  when  I  myself  out-gallop  them  ? 

Even  as  I  stand  or  sit  passing  faster  than  you. 


SONG   OF   MYSELF  121 


33 

I  understand  the  large  hearts  of  heroes, 

The  courage  of  present  times  and  all  times, 

How  the  skipper  saw  the  crowded  and  rudderless  wreck  of 

the  steam-ship,  and  Death  chasing  it  up  and  down  the 

storm, 
How  he  knuckled  tight  and  gave  not  back  an  inch,  and  was 

faithful  of  days  and  faithful  of  nights, 
Andchalk'd  in  large  letters  on  a  board,  Be  of  good  cheer,  we 

will  not  desert  you; 
How  he  follow'd   with  them  and  tack'd   with  them  three 

days  and  would  not  give  it  up, 
How  he  saved  the  drifting  company  at  last, 
How  the   lank  loose-gown'd   women  look'd   when  boated 

from  the  side  of  their  prepared  graves, 
How  the  silent  old-faced  infants  and  the  lifted  sick,  and  the 

sharp-lipp'd  unshaved  men; 
All  this  I   swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it  well,  it  becomes 

mine, 
I  am  the  man,  I  suffer'd,  I  was  there. 

The  disdain  and  calmness  of  martyrs, 

The  mother  of  old,  condemn'd  for  a  witch,  burnt  with  dry 

wood,  her  children  gazing  on, 
The  hounded  slave  that  flags  in  the  race,  leans  by  the  fence, 

blowing,  cover'd  with  sweat, 
The  twinges  that  sting  like  needles  his  legs  and  neck,  the 

murderous  buckshot  and  the  bullets, 
All  these  I  feel  or  am. 

I  am  the  hounded  slave,  I  wince  at  the  bite  of  the  dogs, 
Hell  and  despair  are  upon  me,  crack  and   again  crack  the 
marksmen, 


122  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

I  clutch  the  rails  of  the  fence,  my  gore  dribs,  thinn'd  with 

the  ooze  of  my  skin, 
I  fall  on  the  weeds  and  stones, 
The  riders  spur  their  unwilling  horses,  haul  close, 
Taunt  my  dizzy  ears  and  beat  me  violently  over  the  head 

with  whip-stocks. 

Agonies  are  one  of  my  changes  of  garments, 
I  do  not  ask  the  wounded  person  how  he  feels,  I  myself  be- 
come the  wounded  person, 
My  hurts  turn  livid  upon  me  as  I  lean  on  a  cane  and  observe. 

I  am  the  mash'd  fireman  with  breast-bone  broken, 

Tumbling  walls  buried  me  in  their  debris, 

Heat  and  smoke  I  inspired,  I  heard  the  yelling  shouts  of 

my  comrades, 

I  heard  the  distant  click  of  their  picks  and  shovels, 
They  have  clear'd  the  beams  away,  they  tenderly  lift  me 

forth. 

I  lie  in  the  night  air  in  my  red  shirt,  the  pervading  hush  is 

for  my  sake, 

Painless  after  all  I  lie  exhausted  but  not  so  unhappy, 
White  and  beautiful  are  the  faces  around  me,  the  heads  are 

bared  of  their  fire-caps, 
The  kneeling  crowd  fades  with  the  light  of  the  torches. 

Distant  and  dead  resuscitate, 

They  show  as  the  dial  or  move  as  the  hands  of  me,  I  am 
the  clock  myself. 

I  am  an  old  artillerist,  I  tell  of  my  fort's  bombardment, 
I  am  there  again. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  123 

Again  the  long  roll  of  the  drummers, 
Again  the  attacking  cannon,  mortars, 
Again  to  my  listening  ears  the  cannon  responsive. 

I  take  part,  I  see  and  hear  the  whole, 
The  cries,  curses,  roar,  the  plaudits  for  well-aim'd  shots, 
The  ambulanza  slowly  passing  trailing  its  red  drip, 
Workmen  searching  after  damages,  making  indispensable 

repairs, 
The  fall  of  grenades  through  the  rent  roof,  the  fan-shaped 

explosion, 
The  whizz  of  limbs,  heads,  stone,  wood,  iron,  high  in  the  air. 

Again  gurgles  the  mouth  of  my  dying  general,  he  furiously 
waves  with  his  hand, 

He  gasps  through  the  clot  Mind  not  me — mind — the  en- 
trenchments. 


35 

Would  you  hear  of  an  old-time  sea-fight  ? 

Would  you  learn  who  won  by  the  light  of  the  moon  and 

stars  ? 
List  to  the  yarn,  as  my  grandmother's  father  the  sailor  told 

it  to  me. 

Our  foe  was  no  skulk  in  his  ship  I  tell  you,  (said  he,) 

His  was  the  surly  English   pluck,  and  there  is  no  tougher 

or  truer,  and  never  was,  and  never  will  be; 
Along  the  lower'd  eve  he  came  horribly  raking  us. 

We   closed    with   him,    the    yards    entangled,  the    cannon 

touch'd, 
My  captain  lash'd  fast  with  his  own  hands. 


124  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

We  had  receiv'd  some  eighteen  pound  shots  under  the  water, 
On  our  lower-gun-deck  two  large  pieces  had  burst  at  the  first 
fire,  killing  all  around  and  blowing  up  overhead. 

Fighting  at  sun-down,  fighting  at  dark, 

Ten  o'clock  at  night,  the  full  moon  well  up,  our  leaks  on 

the  gain,  and  five  feet  of  water  reported, 
The  master-at-arms  loosing  the  prisoners  confined  in  the 

after-hold  to  give  them  a  chance  for  themselves. 

The  transit  to  and  from  the  magazine   is  now  stopt  by  the 

sentinels, 
They  see  so  many  strange  faces  they  do  not  know  whom  to 

trust. 

Our  frigate  takes  fire, 

The  other  asks  if  we  demand  quarter? 

If  our  colors  are  struck  and  the  fighting  done  ? 

Now  I    laugh  content,  for  I  hear  the  voice  of   my  little 

captain, 
We  have  not  struck ,  he  composedly  cries,  ive  have  just  begun 

our  part  of  the  fighting. 

Only  three  guns  are  in  use, 

One  is  directed  by  the  captain  himself  against  the  enemy's 
mainmast, 

Two  well  serv'd  with  grape  and  canister  silence  his  mus- 
ketry and  clear  his  decks. 

The  tops  alone  second  the  fire  of  this  little  battery,  espe- 
cially the  main-top. 
They  hold  out  bravely  during  the  whole  of  the  action. 


SONG   OF   MYSELF 


N    :  A  moment's  cease, 

The  leaks  gain  fast  on  the  pumps,  the  fire  eats  toward  the 
powder-magazine. 

One  of  the    pumps  has   been   shot   away,  it  is   generally 
thought  we  are  sinking. 

Serene  stands  the  little  captain, 

He  is  not  hurried,  his  voice  is  neither  high  nor  low, 

His  eyes  give  more  light  to  us  than  our  battle-lanterns. 

Toward  twelve  there  in  the  beams  of  the  moon  they  sur- 
render to  us. 


40 

To  any  one  dying,  thither  1  speed  and  twist  the  knob  of 

the  door, 

Turn  the  bed-clothes  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
Let  the  physician  and  the  priest  go  home. 

I  seize  the  descending  man  and  raise  him  with   resistless 
will, 

0  despairer,  here  is  my  neck, 

By  Got!,  you  shall  not  go  down  !  hang  your  whole  weight 
upon  me. 

1  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath,  I  buoy  you  up, 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force, 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves. 

Sleep— I  and  they  keep  guard  all  night, 

Not  doubt,  not  decease  shall  dare  to  lay  finger  upon  you, 


126  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


I  have  embraced  you,  and  henceforth  possess  you  to  my- 
self, 

And  when  you  rise  in  the  morning  you  will  find  what  I  tell 
you  is  so. 


44 
Long  I  was  hugg'd  close — long  and  long. 

Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and  rowing  like  cheerful 

boatmen, 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings, 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was  to  hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  but  of  my  mother  generations  guided 

me, 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid,  nothing  could  overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 

Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths  and  de- 
posited it  with  care. 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete  and  de- 
light me, 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  soul. 


SONG  OF  MYSELF  127 


45 

Old  age  superbly  rising!  O  welcome,  ineffable  grace  of  dy- 
ing days! 

Every  condition   promulges  not  only  itself,  it  promulges 

what  grows  after  and  out  of  itself, 
And  the  dark  hush  promulges  as  much  as  any. 

I  open  my  scuttle  at  night  and  see  the  far-sprinkled  sys- 
tems, 

And  all  I  see  multiplied  as  high  as  I  can  cipher  edge  but 
the  rim  of  the  farther  systems. 

Wider  and  wider  they  spread,  expanding,  always  expanding, 
Outward  and  outward  and  forever  outward. 

My  sun  has  his  sun  and  round  him  obediently  wheels, 
He  joins  with  his  partners  a  group  of  superior  circuit, 
And  greater  sets  follow,  making  specks  of  the  greatest  in- 
side them. 

There  is  no  stoppage  and  never  can  be  stoppage, 

If  I,  you,  and  the  worlds,  and  all  beneath  or  upon  their 

surfaces,  were  this  moment  reduced  back  to  a  pallid 

float,  it  would  not  avail  in  the  long  run, 
We  should  surely  bring  up  again  where  we  now  stand, 
And   surely  go  as   much   farther,  and    then    farther    and 

farther. 

A  few  quadrillions  of  eras,  a  few  octillions  of  cubic  leagues, 

do  not  hazard  the  span  or  make  it  impatient, 
They  are  but  parts,  any  thing  is  but  a  part. 


128  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


See  ever  so  far,  there  is  limitless  space  outside  of  that, 
Count  ever  so  much,  there  is  limitless  time  around  that. 

My  rendezvous  is  appointed,  it  is  certain, 

The  Lord  will  be  there  and   wait  till   I  come  on  perfect 

terms, 
The  great  Camerado,  the  lover  true  for  whom  I  pine  will 

be  there. 


48 

I  have  said  that  the  soul  is  not  more  than  the  body, 
And  I  have  said  that  the  body  is  not  more  than  the  soul, 
And  nothing,  not  God,  is  greater  to  one  than  one's  self  is, 
And  whoever  walks  a  furlong  without  sympathy  walks  to 

his  own  funeral  drest  in  his  shroud, 
And  I  or  you  pocketless  of  a  dime  may  purchase  the  pick 

of  the  earth, 

And  to  glance  with  an  eye  or  show  a  bean  in  its  pod  con- 
founds the  learning  of  all  times, 
And   there  is  no  trade  or  employment  but  the  young  man 

following  it  may  become  a  hero, 
And  there  is  no  object  so  soft  but  it  makes  a  hub  for  the 

wheel'd  universe, 

And  I  say  to  any  man  or  woman,  Let  your  soul  stand  cool 
and  composed  before  a  million  universes. 

And  I  say  to  mankind,  Be  not  curious  about  God, 
For  I  who  am  curious  about  each  am  not  curious  about  God, 
(No  array  of  terms  can  say  how  much  I  am  at  peace  about 
God  and  about  death.) 


SONG   OF  MYSELF  129 

I  hear  and  behold  God  in  every  object,  yet  understand  God 

not  in  the  least, 
Nor  do  I  understand  who  there  can  be  more  wonderful  than 

myself. 

Why  should  I  wish  to  see  God  better  than  this  day  ? 

I  see  something  of  God  each  hour  of  the  twenty-four,  and 

each  moment  then, 
In  the  faces  of  men  and  women  I  see  God,  and  in  my  own 

face  in  the  glass, 
I  find  letters  from  God  dropt  in  the  street,  and  every  one  is 

sign'd  by  God's  name, 
And   I  leave  them  where  they  are,  for  I  know  that  where- 

soe'er  I  go, 
Others  will  punctually  come  for  ever  and  ever. 


51 

The  past  and  present  wilt — I  have  fill'd  them,  emptied  them, 
And  proceed  to  fill  my  next  fold  of  the  future. 

Listener  up  there  !  what  have  you  to  confide  to  me  ? 
Look  in  my  face  while  I  snuff  the  sidle  of  evening, 
(Talk  honestly,  no  one  else  hears  you,  and  I  stay  only  a 
minute  longer.) 

Do  I  contradict  myself? 

Very  well  then  I  contradict  myself, 

(I  am  large,  I  contain  multitudes.) 

I  concentrate  toward  them  that  are  nigh,  I  wait  on  the  door- 
slab. 


13°  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


Who  has  done  his  day's  work  ?  who  will  soonest  be  through 

with  his  supper? 
Who  wishes  to  walk  with  me  ? 

Will  you  speak  before  I  am  gone  ?    will  you  prove  already 
too  late  ? 

52 

The  spotted  hawk  swoops  by  and  accuses  me,  he  complains 
of  my  gab  and  my  loitering. 

I  too  am  not  a  bit  tamed,  I  too  am  untranslatable, 

I  sound  my  barbaric  yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world. 

The  last  scud  of  day  holds  back  for  me, 

It  flings  my  likeness  after  the  rest  and  true  as  any  on  the 

shadow'd  wilds, 
It  coaxes  me  to  the  vapor  and  the  dusk. 

I  depart  as  air,  I  shake  my  white  locks  at  the  runaway  sun, 
I  effuse  my  flesh  in  eddies,  and  drift  it  in  lacy  jags. 

I  bequeath  myself  to  the  dirt  to  grow  from  the  grass  I  love, 
If  you  want  me  again  look  for  me  under  your  boot-soles. 

You  will  hardly  know  who  I  am  or  what  I  mean, 
But  I  shall  be  good  health  to  you  nevertheless, 
And  filter  and  fibre  your  blood. 

Failing  to  fetch  me  at  first  keep  encouraged, 
Missing  me  one  place  search  another, 
I  stop  somewhere  waiting  for  you. 


AT    AUCTION  131 


AT  AUCTION 

A  MAN'S  body  at  auction, 

(For  before  the  war  I  often  go  to  the  slave-mart  and  watch 

the  sale,) 
I  help  the  auctioneer,  the  sloven  does  not  half  know  his 

business. 

Gentlemen  look  on  this  wonder, 

Whatever  the   bids   of   the   bidders  they  cannot   be  high 

enough  for  it, 
For  it  the  globe  lay  preparing  quintillions  of  years  without 

one  animal  or  plant, 
For  it  the  revolving  cycles  truly  and  steadily  roll'd. 

In  this  head  the  all-baffling  brain, 

In  it  and  below  it  the  makings  of  heroes. 

Examine  these  limbs,  red,  black,  or  white,  they  are  cun- 
ning in  tendon  and  nerve, 
They  shall  be  stript  that  you  may  see  them. 

Exquisite  senses,  life-lit  eyes,  pluck,  volition, 

Flakes  of  breast-muscle,  pliant   backbone  and  neck,  flesh 

not  flabby,  good-sized  arms  and  legs, 
And  wonders  within  there  yet. 

Within  there  runs  blood, 

The  same  old  blood!  the  same  red-running  blood! 

There  swells  and  jets  a  heart,  there  all  passions,  desires, 

teachings,  aspirations, 
(Do  you  think  they  are  not  there  because  they  are  not  ex- 

press'd  in  parlors  and  lecture-rooms  ?) 


132  LEAVES   OF   GRASS 

This  is  not  only  one   man,  this  the  father  of  those  who 

shall  be  fathers  in  their  turns, 

In  him  the  start  of  populous  states  and  rich  republics, 
Of  him  countless  immortal  lives  with  countless  embodi- 
ments and  enjoyments. 

How  do  you  know  who  shall  come  from  the  offspring  of 

his  offspring  through  the  centuries  ? 
(Who  might  you  find  you  have  come  from  yourself,  if  you 

could  trace  back  through  the  centuries  ?) 

A  woman's  body  at  auction, 

She  too  is  not  only  herself,  she  is  the  teeming  mother  of 

mothers, 
She  is  the  bearer  of  them  that  shall  grow  and  be  mates  to 

the  mothers. 

Have  you  ever  loved  the  body  of  a  woman? 
Have  you  ever  loved  the  body  of  a  man  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  these  are  exactly  the  same  to  all  in  all 
nations  and  times  all  over  the  earth  ? 

If  any  thing  is  sacred  the  human  body  is  sacred, 

And  the  glory  and  sweet  of  a  man  is  the  token  of  manhood 

untainted, 
And  in  man  or  woman  a  clean,  strong,  firm-fibred  body,  is 

more  beautiful  than  the  most  beautiful  face. 

Have  you  seen  the  fool  that  corrupted  his  own  live  body  ? 

or  the  fool  that  corrupted  her  own  live  body? 
For  they  do  not  conceal  themselves,  and  cannot  conceal 

themselves. 


CALAMUS  133 


CALAMUS 


WHOEVER  YOU  ARE  HOLDING  ME   NOW  IN   HAND 

WHOEVER  you  are  holding  me  now  in  hand, 
Without  one  thing  all  will  be  useless, 
I  give  you  fair  warning  before  you  attempt  me  further, 
I  am  not  what  you  supposed,  but  far  different. 

Who  is  he  that  would  become  my  follower? 

Who  would  sign  himself  a  candidate  for  my  affections? 

The  way  is  suspicious,  the  result  uncertain,  perhaps  de- 
structive, 

You  would  have  to  give  up  all  else,  I  alone  would  expect 
to  be  your  sole  and  exclusive  standard, 

Your  novitiate  would  even  then  be  long  and  exhausting, 

The  whole  past  theory  of  your  life  and  all  conformity  to 
the  lives  around  you  would  have  to  be  abandon'd. 

Therefore  release  me  now  before  troubling  yourself  any 
further,  let  go  your  hand  from  my  shoulders, 

Put  me  down  and  depart  on  your  way. 

Or  else  by  stealth  in  some  wood  for  trial, 

Or  back  of  a  rock  in  the  open  air, 

(For  in  any  roof'd  room  of  a  house  I  Demerge  not,  nor  in 

company, 
And  in  libraries  I  lie  as  one  dumb,  a  gawk,  or  unborn,  or 

dead,) 
But  just  possibly  with  you  on  a  high  hill,  first  watching 

lest  any  person  for  miles  around  approach  unawares, 


134  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

Or  possibly  with  you  sailing  at  sea,  or  on  the  beach  of  the 

sea  or  some  quiet  island, 

Here  to  put  your  lips  upon  mine  I  permit  you, 
With  the  comrade's  long-dwelling  kiss  or  the  new  husband's 

kiss, 
For  I  am  the  new  husband  and  I  am  the  comrade. 

Or  if  you  will,  thrusting  me  beneath  your  clothing, 
Where   I  may  feel  the  throbs  of  your  heart  or  rest  upon 

your  hip, 

Carry  me  when  you  go  forth  over  land  or  sea; 
For  thus  merely  touching  you  is  enough,  is  best, 
And  thus  touching  you  would  I  silently  sleep  and  be  car- 
ried eternally. 

But  these  leaves  conning  you  con  at  peril, 

For  these  leaves  and  me  you  will  not  understand, 

They  will  elude  you  at  first  and  still  more  afterward,  I  will 

certainly  elude  you, 
Even   while    you    should    think   you  had  unquestionably 

caught  me,  behold  ! 
Already  you  see  I  have  escaped  from  you. 

For  it  is  not  for  what  I  have  put  into  it  that  I  have  written 

this  book, 

Nor  is  it  by  reading  it  you  will  acquire  it, 
Nor  do  those  know  me  best  who  admire  me  and  vauntingly 

praise  me, 
Nor  will  the  candidates  for  my  love  (unless  at  most  a  very 

few)  prove  victorious, 
Nor  will  my  poems  do  good  only,  they  will  do  just  as  much 

evil,  perhaps  more, 
For  all  is  useless  without  that  which   you   may  guess  at 

many  times  and  not  hit,  that  which  I  hinted  at; 
Therefore  release  me  and  depart  on  your  way. 


CALAMUS  135 


THE  BASE  OF  ALL  METAPHYSICS 

AND  now  gentlemen, 

A  word  I  give  to  remain  in  your  memories  and  minds, 

As  base  and  finale  too  for  all  metaphysics. 

(So  to  the  students  the  old  professor, 
At  the  close  of  his  crowded  course.) 

Having  studied  the  new  and  antique,  the  Greek  and  Ger- 
manic systems, 

Kant  having  studied  and  stated,  Fichte  and  Schelling  and 
Hegel, 

Stated  the  lore  of  Plato,  and  Socrates  greater  than  Plato, 

And  greater  than  Socrates  sought  and  stated,  Christ  divine 
having  studied  long, 

I  see  reminiscent  to-day  those  Greek  and  Germanic  systems, 

See  the  philosophies  all,  Christian  churches  and  tenets  see, 

Yet  underneath  Socrates  clearly  see,  and  underneath  Christ 
the  divine  I  see, 

The  dear  love  of  man  for  his  comrade,  the  attraction  of 
friend  to  friend, 

Of  the  well-married  husband  and  wife,  of  children  and  par- 
ents, 

Of  city  for  city  and  land  for  land. 

WHEN   I    HEARD  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE   DAY 

WHEN  I  heard  at  the  close  of  the  day  how  my  name  had  been 
receiv'd  with  plaudits  in  the  capitol,  still  it  was  not  a 
happy  night  for  me  that  follow'd, 

And  else  when  I  carous'd,  or  when  my  plans  were  accom- 
plished, still  I  was  not  happy, 


136  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

But  the  day  when  I  rose  at  dawn  from  the  bed  of  perfect 
health,  refresh'd,  singing,  inhaling  the  ripe  breath  of 
autumn, 

When  I  saw  the  full  moon  in  the  west  grow  pale  and  disap- 
pear in  the  morning  light, 

When  I  wander'd  alone  over  the  beach,  and  undressing 
bathed,  laughing  with  the  cool  waters,  and  saw  the  sun 
rise, 

And  when  I  thought  how  my  dear  friend  my  lover  was  on 
his  way  coming,  O  then  I  was  happy, 

0  then  each  breath  tasted  sweeter,  and  all  that  day  my  food 

nourish'd  me  more,  and  the  beautiful  day  pass'd  well, 
And  the  next  came  with  equal  joy,  and  with  the  next  at  even- 
ing came  my  friend, 

And  that  night  while  all  was  still  I  heard  the  waters  roll 
slowly  continually  up  the  shores, 

1  heard  the  hissing  rustle  of  the  liquid  and  sands  as  directed 

to  me  whispering  to  congratulate  me, 

For  the  one  I  love  most  lay  sleeping  by  me  under  the  same 
cover  in  the  cool  night, 

In  the  stillness  in  the  autumn  moonbeams  his  face  was  in- 
clined toward  me, 

And  his  arm  lay  lightly  around  my  breast — and  that  night  I 
was  happy. 


SALUT  AU  MONDE!  137 


SALUT  AU  MONDE! 


O  TAKE  my  hand  Walt  Whitman  ! 
Such  gliding  wonders  !  such  sights  and  sounds  ! 
Such  join'd  unended  links,  each  hook'd  to  the  next, 
Each  answering  all,  each  sharing  the  earth  with  all. 

What  widens  within  you  Walt  Whitman  ? 

What  waves  and  soils  exuding  ? 

What  climes  ?  what  persons  and  cities  are  here  ? 

Who  are  the  infants,  some  playing,  some  slumbering? 

Who  are  the  girls  ?  who  are  the  married  women  ? 

Who  are  the  groups  of  old   men  going  slowly  with  their 

arms  about  each  other's  necks  ? 

What  rivers  are  these  ?  what  forests  and  fruits  are  these  ? 
What   are   the   mountains  call'd  that   rise  so  high  in  the 

mists  ? 
What  myriads  of  dwellings  are  they  fill'd  with  dwellers  ? 


Within  me  latitude  widens,  longitude  lengthens, 

Asia,  Africa,  Europe,  are  to  the  east — America  is  provided 

for  in  the  west, 

Banding  the  bulge  of  the  earth  winds  the  hot  equator, 
Curiously  north  and  south  turn  the  axis-ends, 
Within  me  is  the  longest  day,  the  sun  wheels  in  slanting 

rings,  it  does  not  set  for  months, 
Stretch'd  in  due  time  within  me  the  midnight  sun  just  rises 

above  the  horizon  and  sinks  again, 


138  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

Within    me    zones,    seas,    cataracts,    forests,    volcanoes, 

groups, 
Malaysia,  Polynesia,  and  the  great  West  Indian  islands. 


What  do  you  hear  Walt  Whitman  ? 

I  hear  the  workman  singing  and  the  farmer's  wife  singing, 
I  hear  in  the  distance  the  sounds  of  children  and  of  animals 

early  in  the  day, 
I   hear  emulous  shouts  of  Australians  pursuing  the  wild 

horse, 
I  hear  the  Spanish  dance  with  castanets  in  the  chestnut 

shade,  to  the  rebeck  and  guitar, 
I  hear  continual  echoes  from  the  Thames, 
I  hear  fierce  French  liberty  songs, 
I  hear  of  the  Italian  boat-sculler  the  musical  recitative  of 

old  poems, 
I  hear  the  locusts  in  Syria  as   they  strike  the  grain  and 

grass  with  the  showers  of  their  terrible  clouds, 
I  hear  the  Coptic  refrain  toward   sundown,  pensively  fall- 
ing on  the  breast  of  the  black  venerable  vast  mother 

the  Nile, 
I  hear  the  chirp  of  the  Mexican  muleteer,  and  the  bells  of 

the  mule, 

I  hear  the  Arab  muezzin  calling  from  the  top  of  the  mosque, 
I  hear  the  Christian  priests  at  the  altars  of  their  churches, 

I  hear  the  responsive  base  and  soprano, 
I  hear  the  cry  of  the  Cossack,  and  the  sailor's  voice  putting 

to  sea  at  Okotsk, 
I  hear  the  wheeze  of  the  slave-coffle  as   the  slaves  march 

on,  as  the  husky  gangs   pass   on  by  two  and   threes, 

fasten'd  together  with  wrist-chains  and  ankle-chains, 


SALUT   AU   MONDE  !  139 

I  hear  the  Hebrew  reading  his  records  and  psalms, 

I  hear  the  rhythmic  myths  of  the  Greeks,  and   the  strong 

legends  of  the  Romans, 
I  hear  the  tale  of  the  divine  life  and  bloody  death  of  the 

beautiful  God  the  Christ, 
I  hear  the  Hindoo  teaching  his  favorite  pupil  the  loves, 

wars,  adages,  transmitted  safely  to  this  day  from  poets 

who  wrote  three  thousand  years  ago. 


My  spirit   has   pass'd    in   compassion   and   determination 

around  the  whole  earth, 
I  have  look'd  for  equals  and  lovers  and  found  them  ready 

for  me  in  all  lands, 
I  think  some  divine  rapport  has  equalized  me  with  them. 

You  vapors,  I  think  I  have  risen  with  you,  moved  away  to 
distant  continents,  and  fallen  down  there,  for  reasons, 

I  think  I  have  blown  with  you  you  winds; 

You  waters  I  have  finger'd  every  shore  with  you, 

I  have  run  through  what  any  river  or  strait  of  the  globe 
has  run  through, 

I  have  taken  my  stand  on  the  bases  of  peninsulas  and  on 
the  high  embedded  rocks,  to  cry  thence: 

Sal  it  t  au  monde! 

What  cities  the  light  or  warmth   penetrates    I   penetrate 

those  cities  myself, 
All  islands  to  which  birds  wing  their  way  I  wing  my  way 

myself. 

Toward  you  all,  in  America's  name, 

I  raise  high  the  perpendicular  hand,  I  make  the  signal, 

To  remain  after  me  in  sight  forever, 

For  all  the  haunts  and  homes  of  men. 


140  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


CROSSING  BROOKLYN  FERRY 


FLOOD-TIDE  below  me!  I  see  you  face  to  face! 
Clouds  of  the  west — sun  there  half  an  hour  high — I  see 
you  also  face  to  face. 

Crowds  of  men  and  women  attired  in  the  usual  costumes, 

how  curious  you  are  to  me! 
On  the  ferry-boats  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  that  cross, 

returning  home,  are    more  curious   to  me   than  you 

suppose, 
And  you  that  shall  cross  from  shore  to  shore  years  hence 

are  more  to  me,  and   more  in   my   meditations,  than 

you  might  suppose. 


The  impalpable   sustenance  of  me  from  all   things  at  all 

hours  of  the  day, 

The  simple,  compact,  well-join'd  scheme,  myself  disinte- 
grated, every  one  disintegrated  yet  part  of  the  scheme, 
The  similitudes  of  the  past  and  those  of  the  future, 
The  glories  strung  like  beads  on  my  smallest  sights  and 

hearings,  on  the  walk  in  the  street  and   the   passage 

over  the  river, 
The  current  rushing  so  swiftly  and  swimming  with  me  far 

away, 
The  others  that  are  to  follow  me,  the  ties  between  me  and 

them, 
The  certainty  of  others,  the  life,  love,  sight,  hearing  of 

others. 


CROSSING    BROOKLYN   FERRY  141 

Others  will  enter  the  gates  of  the  ferry  and  cross  from 

shore  to  shore, 

Others  will  watch  the  run  of  the  flood-tide, 
Others  will  see  the  shipping  of  Manhattan  north  and  west, 

and  the  heights  of  Brooklyn  to  the  south  and  east, 
Others  will  see  the  islands  large  and  small; 
Fifty  years  hence,  others  will  see  them  as  they  cross,  the 

sun  half  an  hour  high, 
A  hundred  years  hence,  or  ever  so  many  hundred  years 

hence,  others  will  see  them, 
Will  enjoy  the  sunset,  the  pouring-in  of  the  flood-tide,  the 

falling-back  to  the  sea  of  the  ebb-tide. 

3 

It  avails  not,  time  nor  place — distance  avails  not, 

I  am  with  you,  you  men  and  women  of  a  generation,  or 

ever  so  many  generations  hence, 
Just  as  you  feel  when  you  look  on  the  river  and  sky,  so  I 

felt, 
Just  as  any  of  you  is  one  of  a  living  crowd,  I  was  one  of  a 

crowd, 
Just  as  you  are  refresh'd  by  the  gladness  of  the  river  and 

the  bright  flow,  I  was  refresh'd, 
Just  as  you  stand  and  lean  on  the  rail,  yet  hurry  with  the 

swift  current,  I  stood  yet  was  hurried, 
Just  as  you  look  on  the  numberless  masts  of  ships  and  the 

thick-stemm'd  pipes  of  steamboats,  I  look'd. 

I  too  many  and  many  a  time  cross'd  the  river  of  old, 
Watched  the  Twelfth-month  sea-gulls,  saw  them   high  in 

the  air  floating  with  motionless  wings,  oscillating  their 

bodies, 
Saw  how  the  glistening  yellow  lit  up  parts  of  their  bodies 

and  left  the  rest  in  strong  shadow, 


142  LEAVES   OF   GRASS 

Saw  the  slow-wheeling  circles  and  the  gradual  edging  tow- 
ard the  south, 

Saw  the  reflection  of  the  summer  sky  in  the  water, 
Had  my  eyes  dazzled  by  the  shimmering  track  of  beams, 
Look'd  at  the  fine  centrifugal  spokes  of  light  round  the 

shape  of  my  head  in  the  sunlit  water, 

Look'd  on  the  haze  on  the  hills  southward  and  south-west- 
ward , 

Look'd  on  the  vapor  as  it  flew  in  fleeces  tinged  with  violet, 
Look'd  toward  the  lower  bay  to  notice  the  vessels  arriving, 
Saw  their  approach,  saw  aboard  those  that  were  near  me, 
Saw  the  white  sails  of  schooners  and  sloops,  saw  the  ships 

at  anchor, 

The  sailors  at  work  in  the  rigging  or  out  astride  the  spars, 
The  round   masts,  the  swinging  motion  of   the  hulls,  the 

slender  serpentine  pennants, 
The  large  and  small  steamers  in  motion,  the  pilots  in  their 

pilot-houses, 
The  white  wake  left  by  the  passage,  the  quick  tremulous 

whirl  of  the  wheels, 

The  flags  of  all  nations,  the  falling  of  them  at  sunset, 
The  scallop-edged  waves  in  the  twilight,  the  ladled  cups, 

the  frolicsome  crests  and  glistening, 
The  stretch  afar  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  the  gray 

walls  of  the  granite  storehouses  by  the  docks, 
On  the  river  the  shadowy  group,  the  big  steam-tug  closely 
flank'd  on  each  side  by  the  barges,  the  hay-boat,  the 
belated  lighter, 

On  the  neighboring  shore  the  fires  from  the  foundry  chim- 
neys burning  high  and  glaringly  into  the  night, 
Casting  their  flicker  of  black  contrasted  with  wild  red  and 
yellow  light  over  the  tops  of  houses,  and  down  into 
the  clefts  of  streets. 


CROSSING   BROOKLYN   FERRY  143 


These  and  all  else  were  to  me  the  same  as  they  are  to  you, 
I  loved  well  those  cities,  loved  well  the  stately  and  rapid 

river, 

The  men  and  women  I  saw  were  all  near  to  me, 
Others  the  same — others  who  look  back  on  me  because  I 

look'd  forward  to  them, 
(The  time  will  come,  though  I  stop  here  to-day  and  to-night.) 

5 

What  is  it  then  between  us  ? 

What  is  the  count  of  the  scores  or  hundreds  of  years  be- 
tween us  ? 

Whatever  it  is,  it  avails  not — distance  avails  not,  and  place 

avails  not, 

I  too  lived,  Brooklyn  of  ample  hills  was  mine, 
I  too  walk'd  the  streets  of  Manhattan  island,  and  bathed  in 

the  waters  around  it, 

I  too  felt  the  curious  abrupt  questionings  stir  within  me, 
In  the  day  among  crowds  of  people  sometimes  they  came 

upon  me, 
In  my  walks  home  late  at  night  or  as  I  lay  in  my  bed  they 

came  upon  me, 

I  too  had  been  struck  from  the  float  forever  held  in  solution, 
I  too  had  receiv'd  identity  by  my  body, 
That  I  was  I  knew  was  of  my  body,  and  what  I  should  be  I 

knew  I  should  be  of  my  body. 


It  is  not  upon  you  alone  the  dark  patches  fall, 
The  dark  threw  its  patches  down  upon  me  also, 


144  LEAVES   OF   GRASS 

The  best  I  had  done  seem'd  to  me  blank  and  suspicious, 
My  great  thoughts  as  I  supposed  them,  were  they  not  in 

reality  meagre  ? 

Nor  is  it  you  alone  who  know  what  it  is  to  be  evil, 
I  am  he  who  knew  what  it  was  to  be  evil, 
I  too  knitted  the  old  knot  of  contrariety, 
Blabb'd,  blush'd,  resented,  lied,  stole,  grudg'd, 
Had  guile,  anger,  lust,  hot  wishes  I  dared  not  speak, 
Was  wayward,  vain,  greedy,  shallow,  sly,  cowardly,  malig- 
nant, 

The  wolf,  the  snake,  the  hog,  not  wanting  in  me, 
The  cheating  look,  the  frivolous  word,  the  adulterous  wish, 

not  wanting, 
Refusals,  hates,  postponements,  meanness,  laziness,  none 

of  these  wanting, 

Was  one  with  the  rest,  the  days  and  haps  of  the  rest, 
Was  call'd  by  my  nighest  name  [by  clear  loud  voices  of 

young  men  as  they  saw  me  approaching  or  passing, 
Felt  their  arms  on  my  neck  as  I  stood,  or  the  negligent 

leaning  of  their  flesh  against  me  as  I  sat, 
Saw  many  I  loved  in  the  street  or  ferry-boat  or  public  as- 
sembly, yet  never  told  them  a  word, 
Lived   the  same  life  with  the  rest,  the  same  old  laughing, 

gnawing,  sleeping, 

Play'd  the  part  that  still  looks  back  on  the  actor  or  actress, 
The  same  old   role,  the  role  that  is  what  we  make  it,  as 

great  as  we  like, 
Or  as  small  as  we  like,  or  both  great  and  small. 

7 

Closer  yet  I  approach  you, 
What  thought  you  have  of  me  now,  I  had  as  much  of  you — 

I  laid  in  my  stores  in  advance, 
I  consider'd  long  and  seriously  of  you  before  you  were  born. 


CROSSING    BROOKLYN    FERRY  145 

Who  was  to  know  what  should  come  home  to  me  ? 
Who  knows  but  I  am  enjoying  this  ? 

Who  knows,  for  all  the  distance,  but  I  am  as  good  as  look- 
ing at  you  now,  for  all  you  cannot  see  me  ? 

8 

Ah,  what  can  ever  be  more  stately  and  admirable  to  me  than 

mast-hemm'd  Manhattan  ? 

River  and  sunset  and  scallop-edg'd  waves  of  flood-tide  ? 
The  sea-gulls  oscillating  their  bodies,  the  hay-boat  in  the 

twilight,  and  the  belated  lighter? 
What  gods  can  exceed  these  that  clasp  me  by  the  hand,  and 

with  voices  I  love  call  me  promptly  and  loudly  by  my 

nighest  name  as  I  approach? 
What  is  more  subtle  than  this  which  ties  me  to  the  woman 

or  man  that  looks  in  my  face  ? 
Which  fuses  me  into  you  now,  and  pours  my  meaning  into 

you  ? 

We  understand  then  do  we  not? 

What  I  promis'd  without  mentioning  it,  have  you  not  ac- 
cepted ? 

What  the  study  could  not  teach— what  the  preaching  could 
not  accomplish  is  accomplish'd,  is  it  not? 


Flow  on,  river!  flow  with   the  flood-tide,  and  ebb  with  the 

ebb-tide! 

Frolic  on,  crested  and  scallop-edg'd  waves! 
Gorgeous  clouds  of  the  sunset!  drench  with  your  splendor 

me,  or  the  men  and  women  generations  after  me! 
Cross  from  shore  to  shore,  countless  crowds  of  passengers! 


146  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

Stand   up,  tall  masts   of  Mannahatta!    stand  up,  beautiful 

hills  of  Brooklyn! 
Throb,  baffied  and  curious  brain!  throw  out  questions  and 

answers! 

Suspend  here  and  everywhere,  eternal  float  of  solution! 
Gaze,  loving  and  thirsting  eyes,  in  the  house  or  street  or 

public  assembly! 
Sound  out,  voices  of  young  men!  loudly  and  musically  call 

me  by  my  nighest  name! 
Live,  old  life!  play  the  part  that  looks  back  on  the  actor  or 

actress! 
Play  the  old  role,  the  role  that  is  great  or  small  according 

as  one  makes  it! 

Consider,  you  who  peruse   me,  whether   I   may  not  in  un- 
known ways  be  looking  upon  you; 
Be  firm,  rail  over  the  river,  to  support  those  who  lean  idly, 

yet  haste  with  the  hasting  current; 
Fly  on,  sea-birds!  fly  sideways,  or  wheel  in  large  circles 

high  in  the  air; 
Receive  the  summer  sky,  you  water,  and  faithfully  hold  it 

till  all  downcast  eyes  have  time  to  take  it  from  you! 
Diverge,  fine  spokes  of  light,  from  the  shape  of  my  head, 

or  any  one's  head,  in  the  sunlit  water! 
Come  on,  ships   from   the  lower   bay!  pass  up  or  down, 

white-sail'd  schooners,  sloops,  lighters! 

Flaunt  away,  flags  of  all  nations !  be  duly  lower'd  at  sunset ! 
Burn  high  your  fires,  foundry  chimneys !  cast  black  shadows 

at  nightfall!  cast  red  and  yellow  light  over  the  tops  of 

the  houses! 

Appearances,  now  or  henceforth,  indicate  what  you  are, 
You  necessary  film,  continue  to  envelop  the  soul, 
About    my  body  for  me,  and  your  body  for  you,  be  hung 

our  divinest  aromas, 


CROSSING   BROOKLYN   FERRY 


Thrive,  cities — bring  your  freight,  bring  your  shows,  ample 

and  sufficient  rivers, 
Expand,  being    than    which    none   else    is    perhaps    more 

spiritual, 
Keep  your  places,  objects  than  which  none  else  is  more 

lasting. 

You  have  waited,  you  always  wait,  you  dumb,  beautiful 
ministers, 

We  receive  you  with  free  sense  at  last,  and  are  insatiate 
henceforward, 

Not  you  any  more  shall  be  able  to  foil  us,  or  withhold 
yourself  from  us. 

We  use  you,  and  do  not  cast  you  aside — we  plant  you  per- 
manently within  us, 

We  fathom  you  not — we  love  you — there  is  perfection  in 
you  also, 

You  furnish  your  parts  toward  eternity, 

Great  or  small  you  furnish  your  parts  toward  the  soul. 


148  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 


FROM  "SONG  OF  THE  EXPOSITION 


AWAY  with  themes  of  war  !  away  with  war  itself  ! 

Hence  from  my  shuddering  sight  to  never  more  return  that 

show  of  blacken'd,  mutilated  corpses  ! 
That  hell  unpent  and  raid  of  blood,  fit  for  wild  tigers  or  for 

lop-tongued  wolves,  not  reasoning  men, 
And  in  its  stead  speed  industry's    campaigns, 
With  thy  undaunted  armies,  engineering, 
Thy  pennants  labor,  loosen'd  to  the  breeze, 
Thy  bugles  sounding  loud  and  clear. 

Away  with  old  romance  ! 

Away  with  novels,  plots  and  plays  of  foreign  courts, 

Away  with  love-verses  sugar'd  in  rhyme,  the  intrigues, 
amours  of  idlers, 

Fitted  for  only  banquets  of  the  night  where  dancers  to  late 
music  slide, 

The  unhealthy  pleasures,  extravagant  dissipations  of  the 
few, 

With  perfumes,  heat  and  wine,  beneath  the  dazzling  chan- 
deliers. 

To  you  ye  reverent  sane  sisters, 

I  raise  a  voice  for  far  superber  themes  for  poets  and  for  art, 

To  exalt  the  present  and  the  real, 

To  teach  the  average  man  the  glory  of  his  daily  walk  and 

trade, 
To  sing  in  songs  how  exercise  and  chemical  life  are  never 

to  be  baffled, 
To  manual  work  for  each  and  all,  to  plough,  hoe,  dig, 


FROM    "SONG  OF  THE   EXPOSITION"  149 

To  plant  and  tend  the  tree,  the  berry,  vegetables,  flowers, 
For  every  man  to  see  to  it  that  he  really  do  something,  for 

every  woman  too; 

To  use  the  hammer  and  the  saw,  (rip,  or  cross-cut,) 
To  cultivate  a  turn  for  carpentering,  plastering,  painting, 
To  work  as  tailor,  tailoress,  nurse,  hostler,  porter, 
To  invent  a  little,  something  ingenious,  to  aid  the  washing, 

cooking,  cleaning, 
And  hold  it  no  disgrace  to  take  a  hand  at  them  themselves. 

I  say  I  bring  thee  Muse  to-day  and  here, 
All  occupations,  duties  broad  and  close, 
Toil,  healthy  toil  and  sweat,  endless,  without  cessation, 
The  old,  old  practical  burdens,  interests,  joys, 
The  family,  parentage,  childhood,  husband  and  wife, 
The  house-comforts,  the  house  itself  and  all  its  belongings, 
Food  and  its  preservation,  chemistry  applied  to  it, 
Whatever    forms   the   average,    strong,    complete,    sweet- 
blooded  man  or  woman,  the  perfect  longeve  personality, 
And  helps  its  present  life  to  health  and  happiness,  and  shapes 

its  soul, 
For  the  eternal  real  life  to  come. 

With  latest  connections,  works,  the  inter-transportation  of 

the  world, 

Steam-power,  the  great  express  lines,  gas,  petroleum, 
These  triumphs  of  our  time,  the  Atlantic's  delicate  cable, 
The   Pacific  railroad,  the  Suez  canal,  the  Mont  Cenis  and 

Gothard  and  Hoosac  tunnels,  the  Brooklyn  bridge, 
This  earth  all  spann'd  with  iron  rails,  with  lines  of  steam- 
ships threading  every  sea, 
Our  own  rondure,  the  current  globe  I  bring. 


15°  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


A  BROADWAY  PAGEANT 


OVER  the  Western  sea  hither  from  Niphon  come, 
Courteous,  the  swart-cheek'd  two-sworded  envoys, 
Leaning  back  in  their  open  barouches,  bare-headed,  im- 
passive, 
Ride  to-day  ihrough  Manhattan. 

Libertad!  I  do  not  know  whether  others  behold  what  I  be- 
hold, 

In  the  procession  along  with  the  nobles  of  Niphon,  the  er- 
rand-bearers, 

Bringing  up  the  rear,  hovering  above,  around,  or  in  the 
ranks  marching, 

But  I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  what  I  behold  Libertad. 

When  million-footed    Manhattan    unpent   descends  to  her 

pavements, 
When  the  thunder-cracking  guns  arouse  me  with  the  proud 

roar  I  love, 
When  the  round-mouth'd  guns  out  of  the  smoke  and  smell 

I  love  spit  their  salutes, 
When   the   fire-flashing   guns  have    fully  alerted    me,  and 

heaven-clouds  canopy  my  city  with  a  delicate  thin  haze, 
When  gorgeous  the  countless  straight  stems,  the  forests  at 

the  wharves,  thicken  with  colors, 
When  every  ship  richly  drest   carries  her  flag  at  the  peak, 


A   BROADWAY    PAGEANT  I$I 

When  pennants  trail  and  street-festoons  hang  from  the 
windows. 

When  Broadway  is  entirely  given  up  to  foot-passengers  and 
foot-standers,  when  the  mass  is  densest,] 

When  the  facades  of  the  houses  are  alive  with  people, when 
eyes  gaze  riveted  tens  of  thousands  at  a  time, 

When  the  guests  from  the  islands  advance,  when  the  pa- 
geant moves  forward  visible, 

When  the  summons  is  made,  when  the  answer  that  waited 
thousands  of  years  answers, 

I  too  arising,  answering,  descend  to  the  pavements,  merge 
with  the  crowd,  and  gaze  with  them. 

2 

Superb-faced  Manhattan! 
Comrade  Americanos!  to  us,  then  at  last  the  Orient  comes. 

To  us,  my  city, 

Where  our  tall-topt   marble  and  iron  beauties  range  on  op- 
posite sides,  to  walk  in  the  space  between, 
To-day  our  Antipodes  comes. 

The  Originatress  comes, 

The  nest  of  languages,  the   bequeather  of  poems,  the  race 

of  eld, 
Florid  with  blood,   pensive,  rapt  with   musings,  hot  with 

passion, 

Sultry  with  perfume,  with  ample  and  flowing  garments, 
With  sunburnt  visage,  with  intense  soul  and  glittering  eyes, 
The  race  of  Brahma  comes. 

See  my  cantabile!    these  and  more  are  flashing  to  us  from 

the  procession, 
As   it    moves   changing,  a   kaleidoscope   divine   it  moves 

changing  before  us. 


1 52  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

For  not  the  envoys  nor  the  tann'd   Japanee  from  his  island 

only, 
Lithe  and  silent  the  Hindoo  appears,  the  Asiatic  continent 

itself  appears,  the  past,  the  dead, 

The  murky  night-morning  of  wonder  and  fable  inscrutable, 
The  envelop'd  mysteries,  the  old  and  unknown  hive-bees, 
The  north,  the  sweltering  south,  eastern  Assyria,  the  He- 
brews, the  ancient  of  ancients, 

Vast  desolated  cities,  the  gliding  present,  all  of  these  and 
more  are  in  the  pageant  procession. 

Geography,  the  world,  is  in  it, 

The  Great  Sea,  the  brood  of  islands,  Polynesia,  the  coast 

beyond, 
The  coast  you  henceforth  are  facing — you  Libertad !  from 

your  Western  golden  shores, 
The  countries   there   with    their  populations,  the   millions 

en-masse  are  curiously  here, 
The  swarming  market-places,  the  temples  with  idols  ranged 

along  the  sides  or  at   the  end,  bonze,  brahmin,  and 

llama, 

Mandarin,  farmer,  merchant,  mechanic,  and  fisherman, 
The  singing-girl  and  the  dancing-girl,  the  ecstatic  persons, 

the  secluded  emperors, 

Confucius  himself,  the  great  poets   and   heroes,  the  war- 
riors, the  castes,  all, 
Trooping  up,  crowding  from  all  directions,  from  the  Altay 

mountains, 
From  Thibet,  from  the  four  winding  and  far-flowing  rivers 

of  China, 
From  the    southern    peninsulas    and    the   demi-continental 

islands,  from  Malaysia, 
These  and  whatever  belongs  to  them  palpable  show  forth 

to  me,  and  are  seiz'd  by  me, 


A    BROADWAY    PAGEANT  153 

And  I  am  seiz'd  by  them,  and  friendlily  held  by  them, 
Till  as  here  them  all    I   chant,  Libertad  !  for   themselves 
and  for  you. 

For  I  too  raising  my  voice  join  the  ranks  of  this  pageant, 

I  am  the  chanter,  I  chant  aloud  over  the  pageant, 

I  chant  the  world  on  my  Western  sea, 

I  chant  copious  the  islands  beyond,  thick  as  stars  in  the 

sky, 
I  chant  the  new  empire  grander  than  any  before,  as  in  a 

vision  it  comes  to  me, 

I  chant  America  the  mistress,  I  chant  a  greater  supremacy, 
I  chant  projected  a  thousand  blooming  cities  yet  in  time  on 

those  groups  of  sea-islands, 

My  sail-ships  and  steam-ships  threading  the  archipelagoes, 
My  stars  and  stripes  fluttering  in  the  wind, 
Commerce  opening,  the  sleep  of  ages  having  done  its  work, 

races  reborn,  refresh'd, 
Lives,  works  resumed — the  object  I  know  not — but  the  old, 

the  Asiatic  renew'd  as  it  must  be, 
Commencing  from  this  day  surrounded  by  the  world. 


And  you  Libertad  of  the  world  ! 

You  shall  sit  in  the  middle  well-pois'd  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  years, 

As  to-day  from  one  side  the  nobles  of  Asia  come  to  you, 

As  to-morrow  from  the  other  side  the  queen  of  England 
sends  her  eldest  son  to  you. 

The  sign  is  reversing,  the  orb  is  enclosed, 

The  ring  is  circled,  the  journey  is  done, 

The  box-lid  is  but  perceptibly  open'd,  nevertheless  the 
perfume  pours  copiously  out  of  the  whole  box. 


154  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

Young  Libertad  !  with  the  venerable  Asia,  the  all-mother, 
Be  considerate  with  her  now  and  ever  hot  Libertad,  for 

you  are  all, 
Bend  your  proud  neck  to  the  long-off  mother  now  sending 

messages  over  the  archipelagoes  to  you, 
Bend  your  proud  neck  low  for  once,  young  Libertad. 

Were  the  children  straying  westward  so  long  ?  so  wide  the 

tramping  ? 
Were  the  precedent  dim  ages  debouching  westward  from 

Paradise  so  long  ? 
Were   the  centuries  steadily  footing  it  that  way,  all  the 

while  unknown,  for  you,  for  reasons? 

They  are  justified,  they  are  accomplish'd,  they  shall  now 
be  turn'd  the  other  way  also,  to  travel  toward  you 
thence, 

They  shall  now  also  march  obediently  eastward  for  your 
sake  Libertad. 


GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN  155 


GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID  SILENT  SUN 


GIVE  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full- 
dazzling, 

Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red  from  the  orchard, 

Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass  grows, 

Give  me  an  arbor,  give  me  the  trellis'd  grape, 

Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  serene-moving  ani- 
mals teaching  content, 

Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high  plateaus  west  of 
the  Mississippi,  and  I  looking  up  at  the  stars, 

Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of  beautiful  flowers 
where  I  can  walk  undisturb'd, 

Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd  woman  of  whom  I 
should  never  tire, 

Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me  away  aside  from  the  noise 
of  the  world  a  rural  domestic  life, 

Give  me  to  warble  spontaneous  songs  recluse  by  myself, 
for  my  own  ears  only, 

Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me  again  O  Nature 
your  primal  sanities! 

These  demanding  to  have  them,  (tired  with  ceaseless  ex- 
citement, and  rack'd  by  the  war-strife,) 

These  to  procure  incessantly  asking,  rising  in  cries  from 
my  heart, 

While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere  to  my  city, 

Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year  O  city,  walking  your 
streets, 


156  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

Where  you  hold  me  enchain'd  a  certain  time  refusing  to 

give  me  up, 
Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of  soul,  you  give 

me  forever  faces; 
(O  I  see  what  I  sought  to  escape,  confronting,  reversing 

my  cries, 
I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  ask'd  for.) 


Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep  your  woods  O  Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by  the 
woods, 

Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your  corn-fields 
and  orchards, 

Keep  the  blossoming  buckwheat  fields  where  the  Ninth- 
month  bees  hum; 

Give  me  faces  and  streets — give  me  these  phantoms  inces- 
sant and  endless  along  the  trottoirs! 

Give  me  interminable  eyes — give  me  women — give  me 
comrades  and  lovers  by  the  thousand! 

Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day — let  me  hold  new  ones  by 
the  hand  every  day! 

Give  me  such  shows — give  me  the  streets  of  Manhattan! 

Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching — give  me 
the  sound  of  the  trumpets  and  drums! 

(The  soldiers  in  companies  or  regiments — some  starting 
away,  flush'd  and  reckless, 

Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinn'd  ranks,  young, 
yet  very  old,  worn,  marching,  noticing  nothing;) 

Give  me  the  shores  and  wharves  heavy-fringed  with  black 
ships! 

O  such  for  me!  O  an  intense  life,  full  to  repletion  and 
varied ! 


GIVE   ME  THE   SPLENDID   SILENT   SUN  157 

The  life  of  the  theatre,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,  for  me! 

The  saloon  of  the  steamer!  the  crowded  excursion  for  me! 
the  torchlight  procession! 

The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with  high  piled  mili- 
tary wagons  following; 

People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong  voices,  passions, 
pageants, 

Manhattan  streets  with  their  powerful  throbs,  with  beating 
drums  as  now, 

The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of  mus- 
kets, (even  the  sight  of  the  wounded,) 

Manhattan  crowds,  with  their  turbulent  musical  chorus! 

Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. 


1 58  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 


THE   OX-TAMER 

IN  a  far-away  northern  county  in  the  placid  pastoral  region, 
Lives  my  farmer  friend,   the  theme  of   my  recitative,  a 

famous  tamer  of  oxen, 

There  they  bring  him  the  three-year-olds  and  the  four-year- 
olds  to  break  them, 
He  will  take  the  wildest  steer  in  the  world  and  break  him 

and  tame  him, 
He  will  go  fearless  without  any  whip  where  the  young 

bullock  chafes  up  and  down  the  yard, 
The  bullock's  head  tosses  restless  high  in  the  air  with  raging 

eyes, 
Yet  see  you  !    how  soon  his  rage  subsides — how  soon  this 

tamer  tames  him; 
See  you  !    on  the  farms  hereabout  a  hundred  oxen  young 

and  old,  and  he  is  the  man  who  has  tamed  them, 
They  all  know  him,  all  are  affectionate  to  him; 
See  you  !  some  are  such  beautiful  animals,  so  lofty  looking; 
Some  are  buff-color'd,  some  mottled,  one  has  a  white  line 

running  along  his  back,  some  are  brindled, 
Some  have  wide  flaring  horns  (a  good  sign) — see  you  !  the 

bright  hides, 
See,  the  two  with  stars  on  their  foreheads — see,  the  round 

bodies  and  broad  backs, 
How  straight  and  square  they  stand  on  their  legs — what 

fine  sagacious  eyes  ! 
How  they  watch  their  tamer — they  wish  him  near  them — 

how  they  turn  to  look  after  him  ! 
What  yearning  expression  !    how  uneasy  they  are  when  he 

moves  away  from  them; 


THE    OX-TAMER  159 


Now  I  marvel  what  it  can  be  he  appears  to  them,  (books, 
politics,  poems,  depart— all  else  departs,) 

I  confess  I  envy  only  his  fascination — my  silent,  illiterate 
friend, 

Whom  a  hundred  oxen  love  there  in  his  life  on  farms, 

In  the  northern  county  far,  in  the  placid  pastoral  region. 


l6o  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


PROUD    MUSIC    OF   THE   STORM 

i 

PROUD  music  of  the  storm, 

Blast  that  careers  so  free,  whistling  across  the  prairies, 
Strong  hum  of  forest  tree-tops — wind  of  the  mountains, 
Personified  dim  shapes — you  hidden  orchestras, 
You  serenades  of  phantoms  with  instruments  alert, 
Blending  with  Nature's  rhythmus  all  the  tongues  of  nations; 
You  chords  left  as  by  vast  composers — you  choruses, 
You  formless,  free,  religious  dances — you  from  the  Orient, 
You  undertone  of  rivers,  roar  of  pouring  cataracts, 
You  sounds  from  distant  guns  with  galloping  cavalry, 
Echoes  of  camps  with  all  the  different  bugle-calls, 
Trooping  tumultuous,  filling  the  midnight  late,  bending  me 

powerless, 
Entering  my  lonesome  slumber-chamber,  why  have  you 

seiz'd  me? 

2 

Come  forward  O  my  soul,  and  let  the  rest  retire, 

Listen,  lose  not,  it  is  toward  thee  they  tend, 

Parting  the  midnight,  entering  my  slumber-chamber, 

For  thee  they  sing  and  dance  O  soul. 

A  festival  song, 

The  duet  of  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride,  a  marriage- 
march. 

With  lips  of  love,  and  hearts  of  lovers  fill'd  to  the  brim  with 
love, 

The  red-flush'd  cheeks  and  perfumes,  the  cortege  swarm- 
ing full  of  friendly  faces  young  and  old, 

To  flutes'  clear  notes  and  sounding  harps'  cantabile. 


PROUD    MUSIC   OF  THE  STORM  l6l 


Now  loud  approaching  drums, 

Victoria  !    see'st  thou  in  powder-smoke  the  banners  torn 

but  flying  ?  the  rout  of  the  baffled  ? 
Hearest  those  shouts  of  a  conquering  army  ? 

(Ah   soul,  the  sobs  of  women,  the  wounded  groaning  in 

agony, 
The  hiss  and  crackle   of  flames,  the  blacken'd   ruins,  the 

embers  of  cities, 
The  dirge  and  desolation  of  mankind.) 

Now  airs  antique  and  mediaeval  fill  me, 

I  see  and  hear  old  harpers  with  their  warps  at  Welsh  festi- 
vals, 

I  hear  the  minnesingers  singing  their  lays  of  love, 

I  hear  the  minstrels,  gleemen,  troubadours,  of  the  middle 
ages. 

Now  the  great  organ  sounds, 

Tremulous,  while  underneath,  (as  the  hid  footholds  of  the 

earth, 

On  which  arising  rest,  and  leaping  forth  depend, 
All  shapes  of   beauty,  grace   and    strength,  all  hues  we 

know, 
Green   blades  of  grass  and  warbling  birds,  children  that 

gambol  and  play,  the  clouds  of  heaven  above,) 
The  strong  base  stands,  and  its  pulsations  intermits  not, 
Bathing,  supporting,  merging  all  the  rest,  maternity  of  all 

the  rest, 

And  with  it  every  instrument  in  multitudes, 
The  players  playing,  all  the  world's  musicians, 
The  solemn  hymns  and  masses  rousing  adoration, 
All  passionate  heart-chants,  sorrowful  appeals, 
The  measureless  sweet  vocalists  of  ages, 


1 62  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

And  for  their  solvent  setting  earth's  own  diapason, 
Of  winds  and  woods  and  mighty  ocean  waves, 
A  new  composite  orchestra,  binder  of  years  and  climes,  ten- 
fold renewer, 

As  of  the  far-back  days  the  poets  tell,  the  Paradise, 
The  straying  thence,  the  separation  long,  but  now  the  wan- 
dering done, 

The  journey  done,  the  journeyman  come  home, 
And  man  and  art  with  Nature  fused  again. 

Tutti  !  for  earth  and  heaven; 

(The  Almighty  leader  now  for  once  has  signal'd  with  his 
wand.) 

The  manly  strophe  of  the  husbands  of  the  world, 
And  all  the  wives  responding. 

The  tongues  of  violins, 

(I  think  O  tongues  ye  tell  this  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself, 

This  brooding,  yearning  heart,  that  cannot  tell  itself.) 

3 

Ah  from  a  little  child, 

Thou  knowest  soul  how  to  me  all  sounds  became  music, 
My  mother's  voice  in  lullaby  or  hymn, 
(The  voice,  O  tender  voices,  memory's  loving  voices, 
Last  miracle  of  all,  O  dearest  mother's,  sister's,  voices;) 
The  rain,  the  growing  corn,  the  breeze  among  the  long- 

leav'd  corn, 

The  measur'd  sea-surf  beating  on  the  sand, 
The  twittering  bird,  the  hawk's  sharp  scream, 
The  wild-fowl's  notes  at  night  as  flying  low  migrating  north 

or  south, 


PROUD   MUSIC    OF  THE  STORM  163 

The  psalm  in  the  country  church  or  mid.the  clustering  trees, 
the  open  air  camp-meeting. 

The  fiddler  in  the  tavern,  the  glee,  the  long-strung  sailor- 
song, 

The  lowing  cattle,  bleating  sheep,  the  crowing  cock  at 
dawn. 

All  songs  of  current  lands  come  sounding  round  me, 
The  German  airs  of  friendship,  wine  and  love, 
Irish  ballads,  merry  jigs  and  dances,  English  warbles, 
Chansons  of  France,  Scotch  tunes,  and  o'er  the  rest, 
Italia's  peerless  compositions. 

Across  the  stage  with  pallor  on  her  face,  yet  lurid  passion, 
Stalks  Norma  brandishing  the  dagger  in  her  hand. 

I  see  poor  crazed  Lucia's  eyes'  unnatural  gleam, 
Her  hair  down  her  back  falls  loose  and  dishevel'd. 

I  see  where  Ernani  walking  the  bridal  garden, 

Amid  the  scent  of  night-roses,  radiant,  holding  his  bride  by 

the  hand, 
Hears  the  infernal  call,  the  death-pledge  of  the  horn. 

To  crossing  swords  and  gray  hairs  bared  to  heaven, 
The  clear  electric  base  and  baritone  of  the  world, 
The  trombone  duo,  Libertad  forever  ! 

From  Spanish  chestnut  trees'  dense  shade, 

By  old  and  heavy  convent  walls  a  wailing  song, 

Song  of  lost  love,  the  torch  of   youth   and  life  quench'd  in 

despair, 
Song  of  the  dying  swan,  Fernando's  heart  is  breaking. 


164  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


Awaking  from  her  woes  at  last  retriev'd  Amina  sings, 
Copious  as  stars  and  glad  as  morning  light  the  torrents  of 
her  joy. 

(The  teeming  lady  comes, 

The  lustrious  orb,  Venus  contralto,  the  blooming  mother, 

Sister  of  loftiest  gods,  Alboni's  self  I  hear.) 


I  hear  those  odes,  symphonies,  operas, 

I  hear  in  the  William  Tell  the  music  of  an  arous'd  and  angry 

people, 

I  hear  Meyerbeer's  Huguenots,  the  Prophet,  or  Robert, 
Gounod's  Faust,  or  Mozart's  Don  Juan. 

I  hear  the  dance-music  of  all  nations, 

The  waltz,  some  delicious  measure,  lapsing,  bathing  me  in 

bliss, 
The  bolero  to  tinkling  guitars  and  clattering  castanets. 

I  see  religious  dances  old  and  new, 

I  hear  the  sound  of  the  Hebrew  lyre, 

I  see  the  crusaders  marching  bearing  the  cross  on  high,  to 

the  martial  clang  of  cymbals, 
I  hear  dervishes  monotonously  chanting,  interspers'd  with 

frantic    shouts,   as   they   spin  around   turning   always 

towards  Mecca, 

I  see  the  rapt  religious  dances  of  the  Persians  and  the  Arabs, 
Again,  at  Eleusis,  home  of  Ceres,  I  see  the  modern  Greeks 

dancing, 

I  hear  them  clapping  their  hands  as  they  bend  their  bodies, 
I  hear  the  metrical  shuffling  of  their  feet. 


PROUD   MUSIC   OF  THE  STORM  165 

I  see  again  the  wild  old  Corybantian  dance,  the  performers 

wounding  each  other, 
I  see  the  Roman   youth  to  the  shrill  sound  of  flageolets 

throwing  and  catching  their  weapons, 
As  they  fall  on  their  knees  and  rise  again. 

I  hear  from  the  Mussulman  mosque  the  muezzin  calling, 

I  see  the  worshippers  within,  nor  form  nor  sermon,  argu- 
ment nor  word, 

But  silent,  strange,  devout,  rais'd,  glowing  heads,  ecstatic 
faces. 

I  hear  the  Egyptian  harp  of  many  strings, 

The  primitive  chants  of  the  Nile  boatmen, 

The  sacred  imperial  hymns  of  China, 

To  the  delicate  sounds  of  the  king,  (the  stricken  wood  and 
stone,) 

Or  to  Hindu  flutes  and  the  fretting  twang  of  the  vina, 

A  band  of  bayaderes. 


Now  Asia,  Africa  leave  me,  Europe  seizing  inflates  me, 
To  organs  huge  and  bands  I  hear  as  from  vast  concourses 

of  voices, 

Luther's  strong  hymn  Eine  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott, 
Rossini's  Stabat  Mater  dolorosa, 
Or  floating  in  some  high  cathedral  dim  with  gorgeous  col- 

or'd  windows, 
The  passionate  Agnus  Dei  or  Gloria  in  Excelsis. 

Composers  !  mighty  maestros  ! 

And  you,  sweet  singers  of  old  lands,  soprani,  tenori,  bassi  ! 

To  you  a  new  bard  caroling  in  the  West, 

Obeisant  sends  his  love. 


1 66  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


(Such  led  to  thee  O  soul, 

All  senses,  shows  and  objects,  lead  to  thee, 

But  now  it  seems  to  me  sound  leads  o'er  all  the  rest.) 

I  hear  the  annual  singing  of  the  children  in  St.  Paul's  cathe- 
dral, 

Or,  under  the  high  roof  of  some  colossal  hall,  the  sympho- 
nies, oratorios  of  Beethoven,  Handel,  or  Haydn, 

The  Creation  in  billows  of  Godhood  laves  me. 

Give  me  to  hold  all  sounds,  (I  madly  struggling  cry,) 

Fill  me  with  all  the  voices  of  the  universe, 

Endow  me  with  their  throbbings,  Nature's  also, 

The  tempests,  waters,  winds,  operas  and  chants,  marches 

and  dances, 
Utter,  pour  in,  for  I  would  take  them  all  ! 


Then  I  woke  softly, 

And  pausing,  questioning  awhile  the  music  of  my  dream, 

And  questioning  all  those  reminiscences,  the  tempest  in  its 

fury, 

And  all  the  songs  of  sopranos  and  tenors. 
And  those  rapt  oriental  dances  of  religious  fervor, 
And   the   sweet   varied    instruments,  and  the  diapason  of 

organs, 

And  all  the  artless  plaints  of  love  and  grief  and  death, 
I  said  to  my  silent  curious  soul  out  of  the  bed  of  the  slum- 
ber-chamber, 

Come,  for  I  have  found  the  clew  I  sought  so  long, 
Let  us  go  forth  refresh'd  amid  the  day, 
Cheerfully  tallying  life,  walking  the  world,  the  real, 
Nourish'd  henceforth  by  our  celestial  dream. 


PROUD   MUSIC   OF  THE   SToK.M 


And  1  said,  moreover, 

Haply  what  thou  hast  heard  O  soul  was  not  the  sound  of 
winds, 

Nor  dream  of  raging  storm,  nor  sea-hawk's  flapping  wings 
nor  harsh  scream, 

Nor  vocalism  of  sun-bright  Italy, 

Nor  German  organ  majestic,  nor  vast  concourse  of  voices, 
nor  layers  of  harmonies, 

Nor  strophes  of  husbands  and  wives,  nor  sound  of  march- 
ing soldiers, 

Nor  flutes,  nor  harps,  nor  the  bugle-calls  of  camps, 

But  to  a  new  rhythmus  fitted  for  thee, 

Poems  bridging  the  way  from  Life  to  Death,  vaguely 
wafted  in  night  air,  uncaught,  unwritten, 

Which  let  us  go  forth  in  the  bold  day  and  write. 


1 68  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 


O  VAST   RONDURE 


O  VAST  Rondure,  swimming  in  space, 
Cover'd  all  over  with  visible  power  and  beauty, 
Alternate  light  and  day  and  the  teeming  spiritual  darkness, 
Unspeakable  high  processions  of  sun  and  moon  and  count- 
less stars  above, 
Below,  the  manifold  grass  and  waters,  animals,  mountains, 

trees, 

With  inscrutable  purpose,  some  hidden  prophetic  intention, 
Now  first  it  seems  my  thought  begins  to  span  thee. 

Down  from  the  gardens  of  Asia  descending  radiating, 
Adam  and  Eve  appear,  then  their  myriad   progeny  after 

them, 

Wandering,  yearning,  curious,  with  restless  explorations, 
With  questionings,  baffled,  formless,  feverish,  with  never- 
happy  hearts, 

With  that  sad  incessant  refrain,  Wherefore  unsatisfied  soul? 
and  Whither  0  mocking  life  ? 

Ah  who  shall  soothe  these  feverish  children? 

Who  justify  these  restless  explorations  ? 

Who  speak  the  secret  of  impassive  earth  ? 

Who  bind  it  to  us  ?  what  is  this  separate  Nature  so  unnat- 
ural ? 

What  is  this  earth  to  our  affections?  (unloving  earth,  with- 
out a  throb  to  answer  ours, 

Cold  earth,  the  place  of  graves.) 


O  VAST   RONDURE  169 

Yet  soul  be  sure  the  first  intent  remains,  and  shall  be  car- 
ried out, 
Perhaps  even  now  the  time  has  arrived. 

After   the   seas   are   all   cross'd,    (as    they    seem    already 

cross'd,) 
After  the  great  captains  and  engineers  have  accomplish'd 

their  work, 
After  the  noble  inventors,  after  the  scientists,  the  chemist. 

the  geologist,  ethnologist, 
Finally  shall  come  the  poet  worthy  that  name, 
The  true  son  of  God  shall  come  singing  his  songs. 


170  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


THE  RED  SQUAW 

Now  what  my  mother  told  me  one  day  as  we  sat  at  dinner 

together, 
Of  when  she  was  a  nearly  grown  girl  living  home  with  her 

parents  on  the  old  homestead. 

A  red  squaw  came  one  breakfast-time  to  the  old  homestead, 

On  her  back  she  carried  a  bundle  of  rushes  for  rush-bottom- 
ing chairs, 

Her  hair,  straight,  shiny,  coarse,  black,  profuse,  half-en 
velop'd  her  face, 

Her  step  was  free  and  elastic,  and  her  voice  sounded  ex- 
quisitely as  she  spoke. 

My  mother  look'd  in  delight  and  amazement  at  the  stranger, 
She  look'd  at  the  freshness  of  her  tall-borne  face  and  full 

and  pliant  limbs, 

The  more  she  look'd  upon  her  she  loved  her, 
Never  before    had  she  seen   such  wonderful    beauty  and 

purity, 
She  made  her  sit  on  a  bench  by  the  jamb  of  the  fireplace, 

she  cook'd  food  for  her, 

She  had  no  work  to  give  her,  but  she  gave  her  remem- 
brance and  fondness. 

The  red  squaw  staid  all  the  forenoon,  and  toward  the  mid- 
dle of  the  afternoon  she  went  away, 
O  my  mother  was  loth  to  have  her  go  away, 
All  the  week  she  thought  of  her,  she  watch'd  for  her  many 

a  month, 

She  remember'd  her  many  a  winter  and  many  a  summer, 
But  the  red   squaw  never  came  nor  was  heard  of  there 
again. 


AN   OLD  STAGE-DRIVER  1 71 


AN  OLD  STAGE-DRIVER 


A  REMINISCENCE  of  the  vulgar  fate, 

A  frequent  sample  of  the  life  and  death  of  workmen, 

Each  after  his  kind. 

Cold  dash  of  waves  at  the  ferry-wharf,  posh  and  ice  in  the 
river,  half-frozen  mud  in  the  streets, 

A  gray  discouraged  sky  overhead,  the  short  last  daylight 
of  December, 

A  hearse  and  stages,  the  funeral  of  an  old  Broadway  stage- 
driver,  the  cortege  mostly  drivers. 

Steady  the  trot  to  the  cemetery,  duly  rattles  the  death-bell, 
The  gate  is  pass'd,  the  new-dug  grave  is  halted  at,  the 

living  alight,  the  hearse  uncloses, 
The  coffin  is  pass'd  out,  lower'd  and  settled,  the  whip  is 

laid  on  the  coffin,  the  earth  is  swiftly  shovel'd  in, 
The  mound  above  is  flatted  with  the  spades — silence, 
A  minute — no  one  moves  or  speaks — it  is  done, 
He  is  decently  put  away— is  there  any  thing  more? 

He  was  a  good  fellow,  free-mouth'd,  quick-temper'd,  not 
bad-looking, 

Ready  with  life  or  death  for  a  friend,  fond  of  women, 
gambled,  ate  hearty,  drank  hearty, 

Had  known  what  it  was  to  be  flush,  grew  low-spirited  tow- 
ard the  last,  sicken'd,  was  help'd  by  a  contribution, 

Died,  aged  forty-one  years — and  that  was  his  funeral. 


172  LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

Thumb  extended ,  finger  uplifted ,  apron,  cape,  gloves,  strap, 

wet-weather  clothes,  whip  carefully  chosen, 
Boss,  spotter,  starter,  hostler,  somebody  loafing  on  you, 

you  loafing  on  somebody,  headway,  man  before  and 

man  behind, 
Good  day's  work,  bad  day's  work,  pet  stock,  mean  stock, 

first  out,  last  out,  turning-in  at  night, 
To  think  that  these  are   so  much  and  so  nigh  to  other 

drivers,  and  he  there  takes  no  interest  in  them. 


MANNAHATTA  173 


MANNAHATTA 

I  WAS  asking  for  something  specific  and  perfect  for  my  city, 
Whereupon  lo!  upsprang  the  aboriginal  name. 

Now  I  see  what  there  is  in  a  name,  a  word,  liquid,  sane, 
unruly,  musical,  self-sufficient, 

I  see  that  the  word  of  my  city  is  that  word  from  of  old, 

Because  I  see  that  word  nested  in  nests  of  water-bays, 
superb, 

Rich,  hemm'd  thick  all  around  with  sailships  and  steam- 
ships, an  island  sixteen  miles  long,  solid-founded, 

Numberless  crowded  streets,  high  growths  of  iron,  slender, 
strong,  light,  splendidly  uprising  toward  clear  skies, 

Tides  swift  and  ample,  well-loved  by  me,  toward  sundown, 

The  flowing  sea-currents,  the  little  islands,  larger  adjoining 
islands,  the  heights,  the  villas, 

The  countless  masts,  the  white  shore-steamers, the  lighters, 
the  ferry-boats,  the  black  sea-steamers  well-model'd, 

The  down-town  streets,  the  jobbers'  houses  of  business, 
the  houses  of  business  of  the  ship-merchants  and  money- 
brokers,  the  river-streets, 

Immigrants  arriving,  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  in  a  week, 

The  carts  hauling  goods,  the  manly  race  of  drivers  of 
horses,  the  brown-faced  sailors, 

The  summer  air,  the  bright  sun  shining,  and  the  sailing 
clouds  aloft, 

The  winter  snows,  the  sleigh-bells,  the  broken  ice  in  the 
river,  passing  along  up  or  down  with  the  flood-tide  or 
ebb-tide, 


174  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 

The  mechanics  of  the  city,  the  masters,  well-form'd,  beau- 
tiful-faced, looking  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 

Trottoirs  throng'd,  vehicles,  Broadway,  the  women,  the 
shops  and  shows, 

A  million  people — manners  free  and  superb — open  voices — 
hospitality — the  most  courageous  and  friendly  young 
men, 

City  of  hurried  and  sparkling  waters!  city  of  spires  and 
masts ! 

City  nested  in  bays!  my  city! 


AFTER   AN    INTERVAL  175 


AFTER  AN  INTERVAL 

(Nov.  22,  1875,  Midnight — Saturn  and  Mars  in  conjunction) 

AFTER  an  interval,  reading,  here  in  the  midnight, 

With  the  great  stars  looking  on — all  the  stars  of  Orion 

looking, 
And  the  silent  Pleiades — and  the  duo  looking  of  Saturn  and 

ruddy  Mars; 
Pondering,  reading   my  own  songs,  after  a  long  interval, 

(sorrow  and  death  familiar  now,) 

Ere  closing  the  book,  what  pride  !  what  joy  !  to  find  them, 
Standing  so  well  the  test  of  death  and  night  ! 
And  the  duo  of  Saturn  and  Mars  ! 


176  LEAVES   OF  GRASS 


SO  LONG ! 


CAMERADO,  this  is  no  book, 
Who  touches  this  touches  a  man, 
(Is  it  night  ?  are  we  here  together  alone  ?) 
It  is  I  you  hold  and  who  holds  you, 

I  spring  from  the  pages  into  your  arms — decease  calls  me 
forth. 

0  how  your  fingers  drowse  me, 

Your  breath  falls  around  me  like  dew,  your  pulse  lulls  the 
tympans  of  my  ears, 

1  feel  immerged  from  head  to  foot, 
Delicious,  enough. 

Enough  O  deed  impromptu  and  secret, 

Enough  O  gliding  present — enough  O  summ'd-up  past. 

Dear  friend  whoever  you  are  take  this  kiss, 

I  give  it  especially  to  you,  do  not  forget  me, 

I  feel  like  one  who  has  done  work  for  the  day  to  retire 

awhile, 
I  receive  now  again  of  my  many  translations,  from  my  ava- 

taras  ascending,  while  others  doubtless  await  me, 
An  unknown  sphere  more  real  than  I  dream'd,  more  direct, 

darts  awakening  rays  about  me,  So  long  ! 
Remember  my  words,  I  may  again  return, 
I  love  you,  I  depart  from  materials, 
I  am  as  one  disembodied,  triumphant,  dead. 


GOOD-BYE   MY   FANCY 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY  !  179 


GOOD-BYE  MY  FANCY! 


GOOD-BYE  my  Fancy! 

Farewell  dear  mate,  dear  love! 

I'm  going  away,  I  know  not  where, 

Or  to  what  fortune,  or  whether  I  may  ever  see  you  again, 

So  Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Now  for  my  last — let  me  look  back  a  moment; 
The  slower  fainter  ticking  of  the  clock  is  in  me, 
Exit,  nightfall,  and  soon  the  heart-thud  stopping. 

Long  have  we  lived,  joy'd,  caress'd  together; 
Delightful! — now  separation — Good-bye  my  Fancy. 

Yet  let  me  not  be  too  hasty, 

Long  indeed  have  we  lived,  slept,  filter'd,  become  really 

blended  into  one; 

Then  if  we  die  we  die  together,  (yes,  we'll  remain  one,) 
If  we  go  anywhere  we'll  go  together  to  meet  what  happens, 
May-be  we'll  be  better  off  and  blither,  and  learn  something, 
May-be  it  is  yourself  now  really  ushering  me  to  the  true 

songs,  (who  knows  ?) 
May-be  it  is  you  the  mortal  knob  really  undoing,  turning — 

so  now  finally, 
Good-bye — and  hail!  my  Fancy. 


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illustrated.     Half  morocco,  $6.00;  sheep,  $4.75;  cloth, 

$3.7:.. 
Inside  the  White  House  in  War  Times.— By  W. 

().    Stoddard,    one    of    Lincoln's    Private    Secretaries. 

12mo.  244  pages.     Cloth,  $1.00. 


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Tinkletop's  Crime,  and  eighteen  other  Short  Stories,  by 
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My  Life  with  Stanley's  Rear  Guard.— By  Herbert 
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The  Peril  of  Oliver  Sargent.— By  Edgar  Janes  Bliss. 
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The  Old  Devil  and  the  Three  Little  Devils ;  or, 

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Life  IS   Worth    Living,    and   Other   Stories.— 

Translated  direct  from  the  Russian  by  Count  Norrai- 
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pure,  simple  and  powerful;  intensely  interesting  as 
mere  creations  of  fancy,  but,  like  all  Tolstoi's  works, 
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The  Happy  Isles,  and  Other  Poems,  by  S.  H.  M.  Byers. 
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Physical  Beauty  :  How  to  Obtain  and  How  to  Preserve 
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Hour-Glass  Series. — By  Daniel  B.  Lucas,  LL.  D.,  and 
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Adventures  of  A  Fair  Rebel.— Author  of  '"Zeki'l," 
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Charles  L.  Webster  &  Co. 

In  Beaver  Cove  and  Elsewhere.— Octavo,  about  350 
pages,  illustrated. 

PRESS  OPINIONS. 

"A  writer  who  has  quickly  won  wide  recognition  by  short 
stories  of  exceptional  POSVIT."" — AVw  York  ln<l>ji><'iitlent. 
"  Her  magazine  articles  bear  the  stamp  of  genius."—  St.  Paul 
Globe. 

This  volume  contains  all  of  Miss  Crim's  most  famous 
short  stories.  These  stories  have  received  the  highest 
praise  from  eminent  critics  and  prominent  literary  jour- 
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leading  lady  \\riins  «.t  America.  Cloth,  handsomely 
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The  Plowing  Bowl:  What  ami  When  to  Drink;  by 
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